Uncle Artie — a Reminiscence
by The Wild Wild Whovian
Summary: Artemus Gordon before the War, as seen through the eyes of a doting younger cousin. A prelude to TNOT Unexpected Visit.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: I posted this one on a now-defunct WWW board. Slightly rewritten._

**One**

Mama had been so excited as she dressed for the theater that evening, only to have a telegram arrive, calling Papa away. "I'm so sorry, dear," I remember him saying. And her reply of, "But… but the tickets! My cousin!"

And then Papa's fateful words: "Take Denise in my place."

Denise was me, five-year-old me. Suddenly Mama was dressing me up for an evening at the theater, all the while filling my head with all the reminders of manners that adults give to children at such last moments: sit up straight, keep your hands to yourself, don't speak unless you're spoken to.

Obviously, the last of those I quite forgot to heed later.

On the carriage ride to the theater, Mama prattled on and on about her cousin the actor whom we were going to see perform. She seemed to have memorized all his reviews **—** and they were wonderful reviews: "a triumph," "unforgettable," "a master of his art," "pulls it all off with the commanding presence of a man twice his years." Of course, I didn't understand what they were talking about. I would be a lot older before I realized just how amazing it was for our cousin, Artemus Gordon, at the venerable old age of twenty-one, to be playing King Lear.

I had never been to the theater before. Everything about it was magnificent **—** simply glorious! We found our seats and Mama continued both fussing at me with reminders of how to behave and twittering on about the reviews.

Then the lights went down and the play began. I had no idea what those people were talking about. Yes, it was English, but not any kind of English I was used to hearing! I kept plucking at Mama's sleeve, begging her to explain what was going on, but all she would say was, "Hush!"

Shortly she said, "There he is; that's Artemus!"

"Which one?"

"Shh **—** he's speaking."

My first impression of him was that he was big and white and hairy and old. Long white hair, long white beard. My second impression of him was his voice **—** deep and full and rolling like thunder. Much later, when I knew more things to make comparisons with **—** especially after I had heard him play his violin for me **—** I would compare his voice to a fine musical instrument in the hands of a virtuoso. But at the age of five when I first heard him act, I thought of his voice as a thunderstorm: now quiet and pattering, now vast and rumbling, washing over me, soaking me in all that marvelous sound.

Perhaps I should mention that I have always loved thunderstorms!

But I still didn't know what was going on. And despite all my pleadings, Mama would only hush me.

Then the voice stopped. With the thought that I wouldn't be interrupting if I asked just then, I tugged at my mother's sleeve and said, "Mama, why is that big old man yelling so much?"

Ah, well… maybe I yelled it a bit myself, for suddenly everyone was laughing.

Or nearly everyone. Mama was mortified. She threw her hand over my mouth, then shrank down in her seat, trying to become invisible.

Up on the stage, that big old man turned his head slowly, so very slowly as the audience continued to laugh, until he was facing us squarely. Then, just as slowly, he turned away again, waiting patiently for the laughter at last to die away. Waiting still longer. Waiting till the attention of everyone present was riveted on him and him alone again. Waiting even then, until the hush in the room was like a physical presence.

And then he brought forth the next line, his voice as soft as a sigh but clearly heard by all. And the play went on.

When it was over, Mama was the first one out of her seat, grabbing me, trying to slip away unnoticed. Suddenly, before we could leave our row, there was an usher blocking our way. "With his compliments, Madame," said the young man, "Mr Gordon would like to see you."

Mama, stammering, tried to beg off.

The usher would not budge, but offered her his arm, saying, "I'm to escort you to his dressing room personally, Mrs Tyler. And your charming daughter as well."

He took us backstage to a door with a star and a placard reading "Artemus Gordon" on it and knocked, saying, "They're here, Mr Gordon." From within, a voice **—** _that _voice! **—** said, "Come in." The usher opened the door, gestured us through, then closed the door behind us, closing us in.

And there he was: big and white and hairy and old. Long white hair, long white beard, huge bushy eyebrows, eyes that pierced right through me, so that I hid behind Mama's skirts and peeked out at him. Like a great white bear he looked! His hands were pale with old-age spots on them, and they shook constantly as they rested on the back of a chair, keeping him upright. What little of his face that wasn't covered with hair was deeply lined with wrinkles, with large bags under his eyes. His shoulders were stooped with age. And his voice, when he spoke, saying, "_There _you are, Camilla!" **—** his voice was just as it had been from the stage: room-filling and huge, ancient and weary.

"Artemus," said Mama, "I'm so very, very sorry…"

He snorted. "Hmph. Sorry! As if that changes what happened! And you!" That was aimed at me, and I instantly disappeared behind Mama again. "Denise…" he said.

"Yes sir," I whispered.

"Come here, child…"

"Yes sir." I came out slowly, hesitantly.

"No, right here to me, child," he insisted.

I obeyed, staring up at him, he staring down at me.

"And what do you have to say for yourself, girl?"

"I'm sorry, Mr Gordon. I didn't know everyone was going to hear me."

Pushing the chair aside, he leaned over me and said, "And do you know what I have to say to you, Denise Tyler **—** you and your apology?"

I shook my head silently.

Suddenly, to my everlasting shock, he swooped me up, laughed merrily, gave me a kiss on the check, and said to me **—** his voice, his entire being instantly completely young **—** "Why, you're forgiven!"

Still held in his arms, I leaned away from him, stunned.

"Artemus, you're frightening the child!" Mama scolded.

"I am? Sweetie, are you scared of me?"

Eyes wide, I nodded.

"Oh now, I didn't mean to do _that_," he said. Gently setting me back on my feet, he said, "Let's see what we can do to change that. It's probably the make-up, hmm?" Reaching up to the back of his neck, he leaned forward and all that white hair came off in his hand.

I stared at him, then ran behind Mama again. And peeked out.

He set the wig on a plaster head on the dressing table behind him, then sat on the chair and turned to face the table, watching my reflection in the huge mirror on the wall behind the table. Grabbing up a towel, he rubbed at his own hair that was now in view: thick, dark, curly, shiny. "Phew!" he said. "Gets a bit hot under there." Tilting his head to one side, he reached below his ear and began peeling away the beard. Next to come off was the moustache, so that I could now see his big wide smile. He continued watching my reactions as he continued removing bits and pieces from his face. The bushy eyebrows came off at last; first one, then the other. And now I could see his eyes, warm and brown and friendly like my Mama's, smiling at me from the mirror. "Better?" he said.

"What comes off next?" I whispered. "Your ears?"

He crinkled his nose at me and shook his head. "No, that's all the appliances, sweetheart. Next is the make-up itself." Picking up a jar from the dressing table, he opened it, scooped out some of its contents, then started smearing the stuff all over his face and hands. Then he took up another towel, wiping it all off again. Finally done, he turned in the chair to face us, threw his arms out wide, and said, _"Voilà!"_

I stared at him, mouth slack.

He leaned forward, eyes twinkling. "Catching flies, Sunshine?"

I snapped my mouth shut, then found my voice and asked, "How do you do that?"

He held up the jar. "Cold cream."

"No. How do you make yourself look old like that?"

"Denise. We don't ask the magicians to reveal all their tricks, do we?" Then, tilting his head to one side, he made a decision. "Come over here, sweetie." Naming to me the various kinds of make-up on the table, he began applying some to my face, showing me in the mirror how quickly and completely he could change me into someone else.

"But," he added at last, after Mama and I had admired and exclaimed over his artistry, "I like the original best." And he used the cold cream to turn me back into me.

"Now, Denise…" he said. He paused, then turned to my mother and said, "Camilla, surely the child has a nickname?"

"We generally call her Nisie."

"Nisey **—** Neesee **—** Niesy… How on earth do you spell that?"

"I don't," said Mama. "When I write her name, I write her real name."

"Neessy…" he muttered to himself. "No, that's not right either…" With a laugh, he said, "Suppose it doesn't matter, hmm? I was going to ask, Niesey… no, not that either… if you would like to come meet my friends?"

"Friends?" asked Mama.

"The rest of the troupe," he said. Tapping me on the tip of my nose, he said, "They are just going to love you!"

I looked to Mama for permission, which she gave. Swooping me up again, Mr Gordon set me onto the chair, turned around, and took me up on his back piggy-back style. "Here we go, Sunshine!"

Mama trailed after us as he took us all through the backstage area, introducing us to actors and actresses with wonderful names, and stagehands and crew with incomprehensible job titles. To each and all, he introduced me as, "My little cousin Denise **—** the little girl with the very big mouth!" And amazingly, he seemed to be very proud of me and how I had brought the whole play to a grinding halt.

Eventually we returned to his dressing room, where he at last swung me back down to the floor. "Camilla," he said, "would you and Denise care to join us?"

"Join you?"

"Yes, dear cousin. Most of us don't bother to eat before a performance **—** and some of us can't **—** so we go out to eat afterward. Care to join us?"

"Artemus, it's very late. Denise needs to…"

"Oh, surely Niecie can stay up once in a while… Oh! That was perfect! Niecie **—** spelled as the word niece with an i before the final letter. And," he added, hunkering down to look me in the eye, "as you are Niecie **—** how would like me to be your dear ol' Uncle Artie?" He smiled winsomely at me, his bright brown eyes twinkling.

I nodded. He had completely won me over. Slipping my arms around his neck, I gave him a kiss on the cheek. And that's when it happened.

I leaned back, staring solemnly into his eyes. And he, looking into mine, read my heart there, smiled at me, then whispered, "Well. I love you too, Niecie."

…

And from that day forward, that's what we were; he was my uncle and I was his niece. And I loved him with all my child's heart.

That particular night, though, after dubbing us uncle and niece, he wrapped his arms round me, looked up at my mother, made huge puppy-dog-eyes at her, and said, "Please, do join us, Camilla."

"Well…" she said slowly, "I suppose…"

"Wonderful!" he beamed. Releasing me, he popped up to his feet, said, 'Give me a moment to get out of these," indicating his King Lear robes, "and into my street clothes." He then disappeared into the dressing room, shooting me a wink as he closed the door.

A few minutes later he came out again, looking freshly scrubbed and smelling marvelous. He was dressed in evening clothes, with a gorgeous silk vest and bowtie and a richly ruffled shirt. Settling his hat on his head with a flourish, he held out one hand to me, the opposite elbow to my mother, then escorted us out the stage door to join his friends.

It was a merry crowd that descended on the restaurant a short walk away. The maitre d'hôtel came forward and Uncle Artie told him, "The Gordon party. And we have two extra, please." Bowing, the maitre d'hôtel led us all to a huge table. Uncle Artie sat at the head of it, placing me at his side and Mama on the other side of me. Later, much later, I would come to realize that wherever Uncle Artie sat would inevitably become the head of any table. Even in the company of his fellow-actors, Uncle Artie always stood out, the self-appointed entertainment committee of one, the life of every party, the master raconteur.

All the evening he told tale after tale, getting his whole being into the stories, his voice swooping and swelling as needed, captivating me completely. And except for when the demands of his narrative called for double-armed gestures, he kept his left arm loosely draped around me, occasionally grinning down at me and giving me a little squeeze. I was Uncle Artie's little girl, and I loved every minute of it.

He ordered my meal for me. I had no idea what he was ordering; he spoke in French, and it sounded beautiful. When the meals arrived, he told me again, more slowly, what he had ordered for me. He also shared with me a few items from his own plate **—** in particular, he passed over something on a skinny fork, informing me it was called _escargot_. "What do you think of it?" he asked me.

"It's chewy," I replied, sounding a bit dubious.

"Artemus, don't play tricks on her," Mama scolded.

He just smiled and squeezed me close again. "Now, Camilla, I would never hurt my Niecie." With a wink, he whispered to me, well after I had swallowed, "Feed her snails, yes **—** but never hurt her."

"Snails! Ugh!" He laughed uproariously as I took my little hand and swatted him. "Hey! Hey! Truce, Sunshine!" he cried. Tilting his head, he then made the puppy-dog-eyes at me. "You forgive me, Sweetie?"

I couldn't stay angry at him, not even if I tried. "Yes, Uncle Artie."

He hugged me, kissing me on the top of my head. Then, looking round the table, he called out, "Anyone order _grenouille _that we can share with Niecie?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

During the remainder of the play's run there in Chicago, Uncle Artie became a frequent visitor at our house. Mama and Papa enjoyed his company **—** and of course, I did too. I was an only child, like Uncle Artie himself, and for those brief few weeks he was my most beloved companion. He took me for walks in the park, delighting in my curiosity about all things natural **—** plants, rocks, birds, insects. He told me the names of everything I asked about, identified birds for me by their songs, helped me catch frogs and lizards, showed me how to make a "musical instrument" by stretching a blade of grass between my two thumbs and blowing across it.

Back at my house, he raided our bookshelves and sat in the parlor with me, reading me story after story, keeping me enthralled with the endless variety of voices he could come up with **—** and keep straight **—** with which to people those narratives.

Or he sat on the floor with me in my bedroom as I played tea party with my dolls, and gave the dolls fantastic names and voices and backgrounds, keeping me in stitches or suspense or wonder as he filled my head with all sorts of marvelous stories.

And one of the best things about him was that, whenever he asked me a question, he always listened to me with his full attention when I answered. He was the only adult I knew who really did listen to me.

He was a wonderful man, my Uncle Artie. A wonderful gentleman.

But the time came when the troupe moved on, taking King Lear on the road. Mama and Papa took me to the docks to see Uncle Artie off on the showboat.

The last of the baggage was being loaded and the engine of the tugboat was building up steam when we arrived. Uncle Artie spotted us and strolled over, smiling. He was dressed in a dove-gray suit with a brocaded olive-green vest, an ascot in a lighter matching shade of green at his throat, accented by a stick pin. He doffed his broad-brimmed hat as he drew near us. Calling out, "Vincent!" he shook hands with my father. Then, to my mother, "Camilla," and kissed her cheek. "And my Niecie!" as he took me up in his arms. Kissing me on the cheek as well, he whispered, "I'm going to miss you so much, Sunshine." I put my little arms around his neck, breathed in his scent, and began to cry.

He held me. Just held me. Until at last I leaned back, sniffling. "I love you too, Niecie," he whispered to me, then produced his handkerchief and dried my eyes **—** and quietly dabbed his own before putting the cloth away again.

"I have something for you," he said. Setting me down, he knelt before me, holding out his empty hands. Palms up **—** then palms down **—** then a flourish. And there was a little red flower in his hand. It was just a tissue paper flower on a twisted wire stem, but it delighted me. "I think it will look lovely right here," he said, tucking the stem into the top of my pigtail so the flower rested over my ear. I turned to smile up at Mama **—** and when I turned back, there was something else in Uncle Artie's hand: a small jewelry case.

"Artemus Gordon, you're spoiling the child!" Mama scolded. "Don't tell me you bought her some jewelry!"

"Now Camilla, it's just a bit of costume jewelry. Something I saw that I thought she'd like. Something to remember her dear ol' Uncle Artie by." And to me, he said, "Go ahead, Niecie. Open it."

I did. It was a little pin, a brooch, of two tiny white masks, one of them smiling, the other frowning. "Oh, I love it!" I breathed. "Thank you, Uncle Artie!" And as I smiled at him in delight, I noticed something. "It's just like your stick pin!"

"That's right, Sunshine. A matching set. Do you know what this symbol means?"

I shook my head.

"It goes a long way back, Sweetie, thousands of years, to the time of the ancient Greeks. When they put on their plays, the actors would wear masks: perhaps an old man, or a young maiden. And these masks," he pointed, "represented the two types of plays they would perform. The smiling mask symbolizes comedy, where the play starts out sad and ends happily, while the frowning mask is for tragedy, where the play starts out happy and ends sadly. Together, the masks represent the Thespian arts. That is," he added, laying his hand over his heart and bowing his head to me slightly, "the art of the actor."

"Like you."

"Like me. Put your chin up, Sweetie." I did, and he pinned the brooch in place on the throat of my dress.

I hugged his neck again. "I love it, Uncle Artie!" And more softly, I added, "And I love you."

"My little Niecie," he whispered, and held me.

"All ashore who's going ashore!" called out a voice.

"Oops, time to go!" said Uncle Artie. Kissing me hastily on the cheek, he came to his feet, saying, "_Au revoir, cherie_. Camilla, I'll write you once we have an address so we can keep in touch. Niecie, I'll expect a note from you as well in your mother's letters. Vince… well… good-bye." Turning, he sprinted for the boat. The ramp was just being taken aboard; he barely made it in time. He waved to us, then made his way gradually to the stern. And there he stood, still waving, until either the distance or my fresh tears robbed me of the sight of him.

…

We saw him sporadically after that. Sometimes once, sometimes twice in a year. My mother would organize a week-long Gordon family reunion every summer; on rare occasions, Uncle Artie would show up for that. Otherwise, we would see him when the troupe returned to Chicago once a year, always with a new play. He would always arrange for the three of us to come on opening night, inviting us backstage afterward and then out to eat with the troupe. Always he would seat me at his side with his arm around me; always he brought me little gifts.

Always the best gift he brought me was himself. My beloved uncle.

He would show up at the house, his voice filling the place as he set foot in the door. I would race from wherever I was **—** generally from my room upstairs. As soon as he saw me, he would call out, "Niecie! There's my girl!" And I would run to him, flinging myself into his arms. Laughing, he would whirl me around and give me my kisses: first on the forehead, then on this cheek and that one, then on the tip of my nose **—** and after that whisper to me, "Oh my Niecie, I love you too." Then he would set me back on my feet, exclaim over how much I'd grown, and say, "You're growing up too fast, Sunshine! No need to hurry. Slow down a bit!" And then, after greeting my parents and visiting with them for a while **—** always, always, he would slip effortlessly back into my little child's world with me, my perfect uncle, as if it were a refuge for him.

It would be years before I realized that was exactly what my world was for him. It would be years before he allowed me my first glimpse into his own world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

It was the year I was eleven. The troupe was back with a new play, and tonight would be opening night. I heard his voice when he arrived at our house and ran down to greet him. This time when I threw myself into his arms, he gave a little "Oof" and said with surprise, "Sunshine, you're getting a bit too big to do that; you just about knocked me over! How many times do I have to say it: you simply _must _stop growing up so fast!" He gave me my kisses as usual and the little gift he'd brought me. But as he did, I noticed for the first time a little spot of sadness hiding in the depths of his eyes. And then I realized **—** it had always been there in my uncle's eyes. I just had never noticed it before.

"Uncle Artie?"

He smiled down on me, making the spot of sadness hide even better. Then he turned to greet my parents.

Oh! I had a new book I wanted to show him. "I'll be right back," I said and ran upstairs to fetch it.

I grabbed the book and hurried back out again. Just as I reached the top of the stairs, I heard Uncle Artie's voice, sharper than usual, saying, "Do you think I don't realize that, Camilla? But please, I beg of you **—** in fact, I _insist_. You must not bring Niecie to see the new play!"

The book fell from my hand, crashing to the floor. The three of them looked up and saw me. "Niecie," said Uncle Artie. "Niecie, let me explain."

I turned and fled. I could hear him charging up the stairs behind me, taking them two and three at a time. "Niecie!"

I reached my room just ahead of him, slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock before I flung myself across my bed, sobbing. He didn't want me to come see the play! Uncle Artie didn't want me there!

The doorknob rattled. "Niecie, Sunshine, let me in."

"Go away," I hollered at him, my voice breaking, my heart breaking. "Go away!"

"Sweetie…"

"Go. Away!" I yelled.

I heard silence from the other side of the door. Then, slowly, the sound of his shoes moving heavily away. And I buried my face in my pillow and cried my heart out.

After a bit I heard a sound, a little scraping sound. Next came a metallic thud. I looked up just in time to see a sheet of newspaper disappearing under the door, carrying the key to my room atop it. A moment later the key turned in the lock from the outside, the door opened, and Uncle Artie walked in.

I threw the pillow at him. "Get out!" I yelled.

"Denise," he said softly. "Please hear me out."

That got my attention; he never called me by my real name.

Grabbing the chair from my desk, he reversed it and straddled it, resting his chin on top of his hands folded across the chair's back. "Denise, Sweetheart, do you remember what I said," and a smile began to creep across his face, "when I fed you the _escargot?" _I nodded. "I said I would never hurt you," he went on. "I love you with all my heart, Sunshine, and I never would hurt you, not on purpose." Tears were glistening in his deep brown eyes and that spot of sadness was in plain view now. "It's because I don't want to hurt you that I don't want you to come see our new play."

"I don't understand."

He tilted his head, now resting his cheek on his hands. "Are you familiar with the book _Uncle Tom's Cabin?" _he asked me.

"Oh yes! Everyone talks about it. Mama started to read it to me, but then she said I was too young for such things and finished it by herself."

"Your mama is right," he said. "It's a wonderful book, but there's a lot in it that is not for children." Regarding me meditatively, he said, "A great deal of what we do, we actors, is merely intended to entertain. A diversion, a brief vacation, if you will, from real life. But sometimes instead, we hold up a mirror to real life, exposing the ugly and the evil, in the hopes that the audience will take it to heart and perhaps even work to uproot that evil from real life and bring it to an end. That's why Mrs Stowe wrote _Uncle Tom's Cabin_, to expose the evils of slavery. And even though Mrs Stowe distrusts the acting profession and has refused to sanction any play officially, there are many troupes putting on unofficial versions. And we have decided to put on a version as well."

"Do you play Uncle Tom?" I asked.

"No, Sunshine, I don't."

"I liked him," I said. "At least, as much as Mama read to me."

He smiled. "Uncle Tom is a heroic character. A man who would rather die than betray his friends, and would rather forgive than curse his enemies. I would have been honored to play him. But I have a different role this time."

"Who do you play then?"

"I actually play three roles. I play the three different men who own Uncle Tom over the course of the play. I make a complete change of costume and make-up twice during the evening."

"Oh, you must enjoy that!" I said.

"Yes, making those changes quickly and getting into the new character as quickly **—** I love that sort of challenge." He smiled, but then his smile faded. "Niecie, do you remember _Othello?"_

"Oh yes, you made a marvelous Othello!"

"Thank you, my dear. But… you remember the character of Iago…"

I made a face. "He was nasty."

"He was the villain. Villains are often supposed to be nasty. And you know what I've always told you about acting: that the goal for the actor is to completely disappear into his role, to become the character he's playing as flesh and blood." Solemnly, his eyes holding mine, he said, "The last of the three characters I play in _Uncle Tom's Cabin _is a man named Simon Legree, the main villain of the piece. A thoroughly wicked and depraved man. You understand, Niecie? In the play, I… become him." He searched my face with his eyes, that spot of sadness so prominent now. He held a hand out to me and I slipped one of mine into it. Squeezing my fingers, he said quietly, "All too soon, my little niece, it's inevitable that you will begin to see the evils that exist in the real world. There's little I can do to protect you from that. But in my world of the theater, when the face of evil is going to bear _my _face **—** please don't come, Niecie. Please don't."

I squeezed his fingers back. "I won't if you don't want me to, Uncle Artie."

"Thank you, Niecie," he said. And the relief in his eyes was so sweet, it pierced my heart.

…

The following morning's newspaper brought the reviews. Mama and Papa exchanged glances after they read them. "Artemus is going to be furious," Mama predicted. And she was right.

He showed up at mid-morning, well after Papa had left for work. I was in the parlor practicing piano when I heard his voice. A minute later, Mama ushered him into the parlor, then excused herself to go speak with the cook. I stopped playing.

Uncle Artie sank down on the sofa, resting his head against the back, eyes closed, a wadded newspaper clutched in his hand. Waving his other hand at me, he said, "Don't mind me, Niecie. Play on."

I looked at the sheet music, found I'd completely lost track of where I'd left off, flipped back to the first page, and started over. Nervous to have an audience, especially such a fine musician as Uncle Artie, it wasn't long before I muffed a note.

"A-flat, Sunshine," he said without opening his eyes.

I corrected myself and went on. I was glad when Mama returned shortly. Taking the newspaper from Uncle Artie's hand, she smoothed it out, then folded it neatly. "That reviewer is simply and completely wrong, Artemus," she said.

"Thank you, Camilla," he replied. He sounded so very tired. "I could understand him excoriating us for a poor performance or a hackneyed script…"

"Neither of which you would deserve," said Mama.

"… but he never said a word about either. He simply savaged us for daring to present… well, to present the truth! Which he dismissed as 'abolitionistic claptrap.' "

"Some people wouldn't see the truth if it rose up like a snake and bit them," Mama declared.

"There are none so blind…" he responded with a sigh.

"You do seem to be taking this rather calmly, Artemus," said Mama. "I had really expected you to enter roaring, as a lion. You sound tired instead."

He laughed. "That's because I've already done a great deal of roaring this morning. You should have heard me venting my spleen in my hotel room after reading the review! And then once I reached the theater, I vented it anew, having an audience for it this time. And I would have rehearsed it a third time as well, but at that point the stage manager suggested **—** strenuously, I might add **—** that I take my anger out for a walk. The end of the walk found me here, well worn out, or else you would now be witness to my highly colorful views on that reviewer's intelligence, if not his parentage!"

"Not in front of Niecie!" Mama hissed.

"Oh, to be sure, not in front of my little Niecie," he agreed. "How is it, though," he went on, "that people don't understand? If a member of that reviewer's own family **—** someone he loved **—** were being held against his will, forced into a life of unpaid servitude, surely that reviewer would move heaven and earth to rescue his relative. Wouldn't he? And yet **—** we are all relatives! Why should the fact that this man's skin is white and that one's is black make a difference? How can one's skin somehow make one less of a human being? As Jefferson said, 'All men are created equal' **—** all, not some."

Sounding troubled, Mama said, "And yet, in drawing up the Constitution, the Founding Fathers made a provision counting the slaves as only three-fifths of a person…"

"That was only for purposes of apportioning the number of seats in the House of Representatives. The slave states wanted all their slaves counted in order to boost the number of seats the South would have. The North objected **—** quite rightly **—** that this would give the South far more power than it deserved, especially considering that the slaves' own interests would not be represented in the Congress. It had nothing to do with considering slaves to be less than fully human."

"I swan, Artemus," said Mama, "if you ever leave the stage, you should become a teacher. You know so much about so many things."

He chuckled. "Well, I shall certainly bear that in mind." Slowly he added, "Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't have been better, instead of compromising with the South over the issue of slavery, to have become two nations right at the beginning? North and South, going each its own way. But then I think, no, westward expansion alone would have brought the two into conflict **—** Bleeding Kansas shows us that. Instead of putting off the inevitable, we would already be at war with one another."

"You think war is inevitable?" Mama asked, horror in her voice.

"Yes." He sighed. "I travel all over the country, Camilla. I see what is happening; I hear what people are saying. I've seen, more and more, the change in attitudes **—** North against South, South against North. There was a time when I held some hope there might be a reconciliation. But not any longer. There's a hardness on both sides now. A hatred. All that's needed is some flashpoint to trigger it off."

"Oh, surely not…"

"This country **—** our beloved nation **—** is about to fragment like a china plate thrown in anger against a wall. And all the little sharp splinters of it will scatter everywhere, piercing every heart and every eye."

There was silence. I had been playing all this time, amazed at for once getting to listen in on an adult conversation, making occasional mistakes in my playing that went unnoticed while Uncle Artie and Mama were talking. Now, in the midst of the lull in the conversation, I hit another clunker.

"Try a simple B-flat chord with your left hand, Sweetie," Uncle Artie said. "Well… with F as the bass note."

I played it his way. "Oh, I like that!" Picking up my pencil, I made a note of the chord structure on the sheet music. But as I started to play once more, Mama interrupted with, "Denise. Why don't you finish practicing later?"

"Don't send the child away, Camilla."

"She shouldn't be hearing this conversation, Artemus."

"Hmm… I suppose you're right…" Brightly, he continued with, "Then we'll change the topic! Niecie, do you want to go playing? Or would you prefer to come over here and sit with your ol' Uncle Artie?"

I didn't need to be asked twice. I closed the cover over the piano keys, flipped the sheet music shut and put it away in the piano bench, then hurried over to him and snuggled up against his side. He smiled fondly on me, pulled me close to plant a kiss on top of my head, and asked me, "Were you taking piano last year? Because I don't remember you practicing before."

"No. This is something new."

"Well, you're doing quite well for a beginner," he said encouragingly. With a grin, he added, "Maybe next year we could do a duet."

I stared at him, my eyes like saucers, and slowly shook my head.

"You don't want to play a duet?"

"In front of people? With them looking at me?"

"Well of course!" he said with a laugh. "Why are you learning piano if you don't intend to perform?"

My eyes went to Mama.

He followed my gaze. "Camilla?"

"Why, it's part of her finishing, of course."

Giving me a wink that my mother couldn't see, he said, "Oh, finishing. So she's a piece of furniture?"

Significantly less than amused, Mama explained, "She needs to turn out well, Artemus."

"Ah, I see," he responded. "So now she's a soufflé."

She closed her eyes for a few moments, sighed, then said, "Artemus, you are my favorite cousin and a fine comedian. But you are not dense; you know what I am talking about."

He turned to me. "Do you know what she's talking about?"

My face said it all.

"Oh, I can see you do," he muttered to me. To my mother, he said, "Let me see if I have this straight then. You are striving to see to it that Niecie, little eleven-year-old Niecie, finishes properly and turns out well. Correct?"

"Well of course!"

"But what's the rush? She's eleven! There's plenty of time for all that later. Why can't she simply be a little girl still?"

You tell her, Uncle Artie! I thought.

"You have no concept, Artemus Gordon, of the sheer weight of social graces a young girl such as Denise must be skilled in, in order to launch well into polite society."

"Oh really? Let's see." Ticking them off on his fingers, he listed, "Play piano. Dance. Knit and embroider. Pour tea. Oh, and the ever-popular dish out the gossip. What am I leaving out?"

"Oh! It's impossible to speak of such matters to a man!" she proclaimed scornfully.

"Well, it's true I was never a debutante," Uncle Artie conceded. "But then, neither were you, Camilla. And look how well you turned out."

"But I want better for my daughter! What mother wouldn't? I want… I want Denise to be the belle of the ball when she comes out, _la crème de la crème_, so that she will have her choice of any number of eligible bachelors and make a brilliant match."

Uncle Artie turned and looked at me. "Brilliant match!" he echoed. "Just how soon are you planning to marry Niecie off?"

"It's not a matter of how soon, but how well!"

He was silent for a long moment. Reaching up to rub at the back of his neck, he said, "Ah, Camilla, I have this vivid memory from back when I was… let's see, not much older than Niecie. I remember you talking to your mother, exclaiming to her about this fascinating young man you had just met. I remember you telling her - it stuck in my memory - that you could live happily in a sod hut out in the middle of the prairie, so long as you were Mrs Vincent Tyler. Remember that?"

"That has nothing to do with it!"

"That was a brilliant match, wasn't it? The two of you in love. You, ready to follow him anywhere as long as you could be with him." A smile slid onto his face as he added, "For richer, for poorer, for better, for worse."

"I grew up poor, Artemus, as you very well know. Denise hasn't. I want her to continue to live in this style to which she has been accustomed."

"But shouldn't that be her choice? Many, many years from now? She's a little girl, Camilla. A sweet little innocent. Let her be a child still for now."

She shook her head. "What business is this of yours anyway, Artemus?"

He turned and looked at me, lifting a hand to brush it over my hair, then said, "I told you, Camilla, how little hope I have left for our nation…"

"I thought we changed that topic?"

"…how little hope I have," he repeated. "We aren't just losing our innocence; we are ripping it to shreds with our own hands." He slipped his arm around me, pulled me close and laid a kiss on my temple. "Whenever I get to my lowest ebb, Camilla, I remind myself: All is not lost yet. For back in Chicago, little Niecie, that soul of innocence, is still playing with her dolls. Still untouched by the hatreds of the adult world, this little girl is my rock of sanity while all else is descending into madness."

"Oh that's ridiculous, Artemus. You can't lay such a burden on a little girl!"

"There is no burden on her; it's all in my own head. But this, Camilla, this is why I keep telling her not to be in such a hurry to grow up."

"And is this why you took that sudden interest in her when she was five?"

He chuckled. "I took that sudden interest in her because she had given me a wonderful new anecdote to tell!" He grinned at me. "And because I enjoyed seeing the amazement in her eyes as I took off my make-up. And because I was having so much fun teasing her. You realize," he added, winking at me, "that if someone at the table had ordered it that night, you _would _have tasted frog."

"Frog?" I said in dismay. "Is that what _gren… gren…?"_

"_Grenouille_, yes. It means frog."

I swatted him, eliciting one of his wonderful laughs.

The door opened discretely and one of the maids looked in. "Ma'am," she said, "Luncheon is ready."

"Ah, thank you, Melissa. Artemus, you'll stay?"

"And since when do I ever turn down the opportunity to sample some of Mrs Linden's cooking?" he said jovially. Rising, he extended one elbow to my mother, the other to me, and escorted us to the dining room.

…

Despite the bad review **—** or, as Papa said, perhaps because of it **—** the play did well in Chicago. When it came time to go on the road however, I overheard Uncle Artie telling Papa that bookings were down, especially in the South. And later, when Mama received letters from Uncle Artie on the tour, instead of simply handing them to me so I could read them for myself, she read them to me, with several long pauses marking the parts she didn't think I should hear. I finally prowled through her desk one afternoon while she was out and had a look for myself. Uncle Artie told of being run out of more than one town, of vandalism of the set, of threats of violence.

And actual violence.

The following year the troupe showed up in Chicago a full month earlier than usual. And the new play was an old classic: Sheridan's _The Rivals _with Uncle Artie playing the Irishman O'Trigger.

That spot of sadness in Uncle Artie's eyes was plainer now than it had been the year before. He spent a lot of time with me. I enjoyed it tremendously of course, but after the conversation he'd had with Mama the year before, I began to feel a certain amount of responsibility to help Uncle Artie forget there was evil out there. I hugged him more, played games with him more, made up silly jokes to tell him. We went on long walks together, caught geckos and grasshoppers together. We spent one marvelous afternoon making up an elaborate menu, which he then wrote out in French for me, of all sorts of incredible dishes featuring not only _escargot _and _grenouille_, but lizards and crickets and jellyfish and squids. I still have that menu **—** one of my prized possessions.

The day before the troupe was to go on tour again, we went on another long nature ramble. As we were heading home again, Uncle Artie suddenly said to me, "I know what you've been up to, Niecie."

"I've been up to something?" I said blankly.

"…Yes!" he said, his eyes twinkling at me. "You have been doing everything you can to make my time here as enjoyable as possible." Tucking his arm around me, he said, "You're my little ray of sunshine, Niecie. Thank you." Dropping a kiss on top of my head, he added, "And I love you too."

"You know, Uncle Artie," I ventured, "you say that all the time as if you were responding to me telling you I love you. But I usually don't say it first."

He laughed. "That's what you think, Sunshine. But you tell me you love me almost constantly. And on rare occasions, in words."

"Oh," I said, not really sure what he meant. "Well, just to be sure: I love you, Uncle Artie."

He smiled tenderly. "And I love you too, Niecie." Meditatively, he added, "I'll miss you so much, Sunshine."

"I'm going to miss you too, Uncle Artie." But when I said it, I had no idea just how much or how badly that was going to be true.

For at some point during that year's road trip, Uncle Artie vanished.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

He vanished!

Uncle Artie left on the showboat with his troupe as expected, and for a few months, Mama kept in touch with him as usual. But then she received a letter from someone else in the troupe saying he was no longer with them and enclosing her latest letter to him in the envelope, unopened. No explanation. When the troupe later arrived back in Chicago for their yearly visit, Mama went down to the theater and talked to everyone — literally everyone! — but no one could tell her where he had gone or why. There had been no falling out with anyone, no obvious reason for him to leave. He had simply made sure his understudy could handle the role **—** and resigned. That had been at New Orleans, months ago. He could be anywhere by now.

I couldn't believe he was missing. It was as if he'd fallen right off the face of the earth. Sometimes in bed at night, I thought about our conversation the day before he left on the showboat, wondering had he been dropping a hint when he's said how much he would miss me.

Summer came, and with it the Gordon family reunion. Mama ran me ragged with all the work. I was thirteen now and Mama thought I should handle some responsibilities on my own. And so I was given the lovely assignment of keeping the trash barrels empty. There were a dozen of them scattered around the grounds, and I was to check them regularly and haul them out back to dump the contents into a wagon when they got full. At least I wouldn't have to drive the wagon away when _it _was full; she'd hired a man to do that.

It was the first day of the week-long reunion, and I was hauling the first barrel out to the wagon, dragging the nasty thing along, wishing it had wheels on it. When I got the barrel close to the wagon, I was surprised to see a man stretched out on the wagon seat, his hat over his face, apparently taking a nap.

I'll admit it; I thought that if the man were awake, perhaps he'd be chivalrous enough to offer to pick up the barrel for me and empty it into the wagon. So I said, "Oh! Hello."

"Hmm?" The man sat up, shifting his hat back into its proper place. He was a brown little man: dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, dark patch of two-days' beard across his cheeks and chin. He had a scar across his nose and a squint in one eye. His clothes were ragged and none too clean. But his smile was pleasant enough.

"Hey there, Sunshine!" he said. Then winced and mumbled, "Whoops! S'pose that's too forward, eh?" His accent was strange to me **—** maybe Eastern, maybe even Southern. "Wot's yer name then, Dearie?" Or maybe from Ireland or something?

Gently, not wanting to be rude, I said, "I'm sorry. My mother says I'm not to tell my name to strangers."

"Eh, does she now? Me Great Aunt Maude used t' tell me the same sorta thing, that she did." Cocking his head at me like a robin, he added, "Now yer ma **—** is she the one wot hired me t' drive this here wagon? Mrs Tyler?"

"Yes sir."

"Eh then, that makes y' Miss Tyler, don't it? So we ain't strangers no more." He stuck out a hand. "Mike Murray. At yer service."

I didn't really want to, but I shook his hand. There was a lot of grime up under his fingernails, which I tried to ignore.

"But wot they got a little lady like yerself hauling off the garbage fer?" he asked. Hopping down from the wagon seat, he did what I'd hoped he would do; he took the trash barrel from me, easily upended it into the wagon bed, and with a few sharp knocks against the side rails, got all the trash out. "There y' go, Miss Tyler! Anythin' else y' be needin'?"

"Not at the moment. Thank you, Mr Murray."

"See ya inna bit then, eh?" he said. "When y' bring the next barrel?" He leaned in close as he touched his hat brim to me. He really was a little man, barely taller than I was.

I thanked him again and took the barrel back to its place. As I continued to make the rounds, I hauled another barrel to the wagon and found Mr Murray snoozing once more. Feeling bad about the prospect of waking him again, I made the effort to lift this barrel myself, but only managed to smack it against the outside of the wagon, then drop it.

And, yes, I woke the little man up. "Now, now, Miss Tyler!" he admonished me, "Y' oughten t' be doin' that! Jes' let ol' Mike Murray see t' it, eh?" He hopped down and took care of it all, even picking up the bits that had tumbled out on the ground when I dropped it. "See? Now doncha worry none 'bout wakin' me up, Sunshine. Miss Tyler, I mean." He grinned. "Now y' want me t' haul that 'un back up where it belongs fer ya?"

"No, that's fine; I can do it. Thank you, Mr Murray."

" 'Tis me pleasure," he replied.

What a sweet man he was! I thought as I took the barrel back.

I made several more trips throughout the morning. With noon coming up and the sit-down meal on its way, I poured a couple of big glasses of cold water and took them out to the wagon. "Mr Murray?" I called.

He sat up, shifting his hat as usual. Seeing I had something other than trash this time, he hopped down off the wagon, accepted the glass I handed him, and took a sip. Then he reached in his back pocket and produced a flask with which he proceeded to doctor his water. Holding up the flask, he invited, "Have a wee droppa, me lass?"

I shook my head; I could smell how strong the stuff in the flask was from where I stood. "I'm not allowed to drink yet," I informed him.

"Eh, t' be sure, t' be sure," he said as he stoppered the flask and put it away. Lifting his glass, he said something that sounded like "Slawncha," and drank. "Thirsty work, haulin' the trash," he said with a grin.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

His eyes lit. "Sure 'n' I could eat, yeah. Wotcha offerin'?"

"Mama's about to serve luncheon. I thought I would fix a plate and bring it to you, Mr Murray. Is there anything in particular you'd like?"

"Eh, I ain't so particular," he said, stroking the raspy stubble on his chin. "Although… there's a thought…"

"Yes sir?"

Leaning in close, eyes glittering, he said, "Yer ma servin' any o' them fancy French dishes? _Comme escargot ou grenouille?"_

I stared, startled that Mr Murray had suddenly switched to French, amazed that he had mentioned precisely those two French foods, and bewildered as his squinty eye spasmed shut, then open again.

No **—** that wasn't a spasm; that was a wink! I looked even closer into that face which was only inches from my own. And my eyes went round. My mouth fell open.

Eyes twinkling, he whispered, "Catching flies, Sunshine?"

"Uncle…!"

He waved his fingers at me. "Sh-sh-sh!"

Dropping my voice to a whisper, I tried again. "Uncle Artie?"

He nodded, grinning.

I threw my arms around his neck. "Oh, Uncle Artie!"

Laughing, he hugged me back, lifting me right off my feet. And when he set me down, I looked up at him and said, "Wait **—** you're tall again! Mr Murray was nearly as short as I am. How'd you do that?"

"Posture," he replied. "Just a trick of posture. But you really didn't recognize me?"

"No, not at all. Not till you spoke in French. Oh, and winked."

"Even with me getting right in your face so often? And I called you Sunshine twice! Never to mention the fact that you saw me play O'Trigger."

I just kept shaking my head, astounded at how he had tricked me. "But where have you been all this time, Uncle Artie? And why are you pretending to be someone you're not?"

"All in good time, Niecie, all in good time. I intend to explain everything to you, Sweetie, only not right now. Right now," he added, laying a hand on his stomach and shrinking back into character, "I'm more'n a mite hungry, me lass. That plate o' food wotcha promised me?"

"Oh, right away, Unc… I mean, Mr Murray." I started off to fetch it.

He stopped me for a moment, whispered, "Now, not a word t' yer ma. She ain't twigged t' me yet, an' I'd like t' keep it that way fer now."

"Yes, Mr Murray," I said.

"An' wipe that grin off yer face, Sunshine!"

"I'm trying!" I was so happy to have him back, it was hard not to grin!

I headed back across the grounds. My first intent had been to go to the pavilion where the luncheon was laid out and fix his plate there. But that would put me close to Mama, and I was afraid I would give Uncle Artie's secret away if I got near her just now. Instead, I went to the house and into the kitchen, found our cook Mrs Linden, and explained to her about wanting to take a plate of food out to Mr Murray.

"Oh, there's no need to do that," said Mrs Linden. "You bring the man in here! He can eat in the kitchen, out of the sun and away from the flies."

Oh! "Well thank you, Mrs Linden!" And I hurried back out to tell Uncle Artie.

"Oh," he said, "Mrs Linden!" And his eyes lit up. One of his favorite things to do whenever he ate with us was to praise Mrs Linden's cooking to high heaven **—** and it certainly deserved it **—** and end by teasing her that, if only she weren't already married, he would propose to her for her culinary virtuosity. Which would inevitably elicit a blush from her and a twitter of, "Oh, Mr Gordon!"

Grinning at me, Mr Murray said, "Someone else t' test me disguise on, eh, Miss Tyler m'girl?" Springing from the wagon, he gathered our two glasses and followed me up to the house.

Mama intercepted us midway. "There you are, Denise!" she said. "I've been looking all over for you. Where…?" She glanced at Mr Murray behind me and changed her question. "What are you doing?"

"Mrs Linden told me to bring Mr Murray up to the kitchen to eat lunch."

"Oh, I see. That's fine. But hurry back, Denise. There's a certain young man who wants to meet you, and I've reserved your seat next to him." She smiled sweetly at me. And I heard Mr Murray behind me suppress a snort of laughter.

Staring at Mama, I stammered, "Young… young man… Meet me? Mama, I'm thirteen. Why would some young man want to meet me?"

"Well, I…"

"And besides that, this is the family reunion. You're not trying to matchmake me with one of my cousins, are you?"

"Now, Denise! Abner may be your senior **—** by a few years **—** but he's an admirable…"

A choking sound drowned out her words. She and I both turned and looked at Mr Murray, who was coughing and holding one of the glasses out to me. "Take it, take it!" he begged between coughs. I did and he, managing to catch his breath, took a huge swig from the remaining glass. Recovering, he said, "Thanks fer grabbin' the glass, Miss Tyler. I was nigh t' droppin' it!"

"But whatever was wrong, Mr Murray?" asked Mama.

"Eh, 'twas a simple matter o' me drinkin' from the wrong glass, d' y' see," he said sheepishly.

"The wrong…?"

"Oh!" I said, remembering the flask. "My glass has plain water in it and his, um… doesn't."

Mama shot him a stern look. "Take him along to the kitchen, Denise, and come straight back. Abner is waiting to meet you." She simpered and swept away.

Mr Murray caught my arm and we hurried off. "What was that really about?" I asked.

"Abner!" Uncle Artie hissed in his own voice. "She can't be serious!"

"You know him?"

He gave a snort of derision. "Know him! Oh, I know Abner all right. He has all the brains of a butterfly. As for young, he's closer to my age than he is to yours. What _is _your mother thinking? Surely she doesn't imagine _this _is a 'brilliant match'!"

By the time we reached the kitchen, Mr Murray was back to being Mr Murray. And I had decided that, if I was going to sit and eat my lunch alongside an older cousin, that cousin was absolutely going to be Uncle Artie and no one else. We washed up at the kitchen pump and Mrs Linden handed us each a plate and said we should help ourselves. There were plenty of platters of food still in the kitchen, waiting to replenish the tables under the pavilion, so help ourselves we did. And it was all, as usual, absolutely delicious.

Uncle Artie amazed me. His character and accent were that of Mr Murray, but every thing he said to Mrs Linden was the sort of thing he would have normally said to her as himself. Right down to ending the meal by twinkling his eyes at her and saying, "Eh, Mrs Linden, yer the finest cook I ever met in all me born days. If you was only a free woman an' not married already, I'd be gettin' down on me knee right here an' now t' beg fer yer hand in marriage, that I would!"

"Why, Mr Murray!" she fluttered, blushing.

Half turning toward me, Uncle Artie shot me a wink. Yet another successful test of his disguise!

Taking his leave of Mrs Linden with effusive gratitude for the glorious meal, he steered me outside, then set about helping me gather the trash barrels and haul them off to the wagon where he emptied them all for me. Climbing up on the seat, he took up the reins. "Off t' the dump, then!" he said. "Care t' come?"

I laughed and begged off. Turning to grab a barrel to take it back up to the reunion, I saw my mother bearing down on me, a slack-jawed man with vacant eyes in her wake.

I froze. "Is that Abner?"

"Oh yes."

"Brains of a butterfly?"

"Oh yes. Reconsiderin'?"

"Oh yes!" I turned and held up my hand, and Mr Murray boosted me up onto the seat beside him. He gave a slap of the reins and the wagon moved out.

"Denise!" I heard my mother calling after me. "Denise! Where do you think you are going?"

"With Mr Murray to empty the wagon. You did make the trash my responsibility, Mother!" I called back and waved.

He took us first to the dump, where he produced a shovel from under the seat and unloaded the wagon as quickly as possible. He next drove us to a shabby-looking hotel. "This isn't the sort of place where you usually stay," I commented.

"Running short of funds," he replied. He asked for his key at the desk, then escorted me up to his sparsely furnished room: bed, table, chair, wardrobe, washstand and mirror. Moving the chair to face a corner, he said, "Sit there and don't look until I say you can."

"Yes, Uncle Artie."

I heard the sound of water being poured into the wash basin, then a good deal of splashing, along with other sounds of various degrees of recognizability. And through it all Uncle Artie was singing snatches of Stephen Foster. Finally, he said, "All right, Niecie."

I turned. Mike Murray was gone! Uncle Artie was at the washstand preparing to shave, dressed in a fresh long-sleeved undershirt and some nice suit pants with the suspenders dangling. "Beneath the bed," he told me, "you'll find my luggage. Would you start packing my things for me, please, Niecie?"

"Pack?" I said, terribly disappointed. "You're leaving again already? Where are you going now?"

He smiled at my reflection in the mirror. "Well, considering it's Mike Murray your mother is angry with, and not Artemus Gordon **—** I'm hoping to spend a few days at your house."

"Oh!" I said gladly and cheerfully set about packing for him.

Before long he was ready to go. He paid his bill, loaded his bags into the wagon, and off we went.

"But what are you going to tell Mother? How are you going to explain having the wagon?"

He grinned at me. "I have a few ideas," he said.

He drove us up to the house **—** not around back where we'd come from, where we'd last seen Mother, but right up the circular driveway to the front door. Winking, he whispered, "Follow my lead." Then he jumped down, swung me down as well, lifted out his baggage, and rang the bell.

For a long time no one came. Uncle Artie was just about to ring a second time when the door was opened by, of all people, Mrs Linden.

The pair of them stared at each other for a long moment. Recovering first, Uncle Artie said, "Why, Mrs Linden! Do your duties include answering the door now?"

"Mr… Mr Gordon!" said our cook. "What a wonder to see _you! _But the household is all in a hubbub just now, Mr Gordon, and I'm the only one left in the house."

"The reunion is a smashing success?" he inquired.

"Oh my, no! Well, yes. Or maybe; I don't… No, Mr Gordon, it's that Miss Denise has run off…" That's when she noticed: "Miss Denise!"

"Hello, Mrs Linden."

"But why…? How…?"

Smiling genially, Uncle Artie said, "Why don't you go let Mrs Tyler know that Denise is home and safe, Mrs Linden?"

"Oh, oh yes!" She hurried off, leaving us standing on the porch. Shrugging at me, Uncle Artie picked up his bags and moved them inside the house.

Moments later we heard voices, and then Mother swept in, followed by the servants and practically every Gordon at the reunion. She was completely focused on me, storming out, "Denise Camilla Tyler! What did you think you were doing, going off with that, that…!"

"Hello, Camilla," said Uncle Artie, diverting her attention.

From the wonderment on Mother's face, I deduced that either Mrs Linden hadn't told Mother that Uncle Artie was here as well, or else Mother hadn't heard her do so. She stared at him for so long that he finally leaned close and said, "I'm not a ghost, Camilla."

"Ar… Artemus?"

"In the flesh," he smiled, bowing.

"But how is it…? And Denise…?" She didn't know which of us to deal with first.

"Well, it's a remarkable thing, Camilla," said Uncle Artie, beginning to spin his tale. "I got into town to attend the family reunion. And I was walking along, coming out to the house here, carrying my bags," a sweep of his hand to indicate them, "when I heard my Niecie calling out my name. I looked about, and there she was in a wagon being driven by this funny little Irishman. Well, he drew up the wagon and we talked. I told her my story, and she told me hers. And when I heard hers… I thought how that funny little Irishman was going to be _persona non grata _with a certain Camilla Tyler. So I paid him for his half-day's work and sent him toddling off, and drove Niecie the rest of the way home myself."

I was impressed at how neatly he had tied it all up, and at how quickly he'd taken the wind out of Mother's sails. "Oh. Well," she said at last. "Thank you, Artemus, for bringing Denise home. But where did you go?" she turned and asked me, starting already on a fresh breeze.

"Just as I told you, Mother," I replied. "Mr Murray and I went to the dump to empty the wagon."

"Nowhere else?"

Not wanting to lie or tell the truth, I spread my hands and said, "Where else would we go?"

Eventually Mother was pacified. Not only did she thank Uncle Artie all over again for bringing me home safe and sound **—** not only did she, as he had hoped, invite him to stay at our house for a few days **—** but she also inquired how much money he had paid to Mr Murray and reimbursed him.

Later, privately, Uncle Artie showed me the money, quipping, "Like they say, me Sunshine: a workman's worthy o' his wages, eh?" And if he was a wee bit Irish when he said it, and his eye a wee bit squinty **—** well, at least Mother didn't catch him at it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

Uncle Artie wasn't the only relative staying with us for the reunion. We had a dining room full of guests at supper that night. Afterward, Papa invited the men into his study for brandy and cigars, while Mother led the women into the parlor to sit with their needlework and gossip. To my surprise, I was included in the parlor group; I had expected to be sent up to my room for bed.

I tired quickly of listening to my elders talk about people I didn't know **—** and, judging from what was being said of them, didn't want to know. I was trying to do some knitting, but after dropping three stitches in a single row, I gave that up. Instead, I wandered over to the piano, pulled some sheet music out of the bench, and began to play softly in the background. A nocturne; I was too nervous to try anything the ladies might start singing along with.

The evening passed pretty well. I got several compliments on my playing and didn't make any major mistakes. Gradually the ladies excused themselves and went off to bed. Finally there was only me, Mother and one old aunt. Then the door opened and a maid came in.

"Excuse me, Mrs Tyler, but Mr Tyler requests that Miss Denise come to the study."

"Of course," said Mother. "Denise…"

I closed up the piano and put away the sheet music. From the smug look on my mother's face, I knew she had had a word with my father about me, and realized that this was why I hadn't been sent off to bed right after supper. Hmph! Pulling myself up as tall as I could, I said, "Good night, Auntie; good night, Mother," and followed the maid to go face my father, and the music.

Papa was standing by his desk waiting for me when we arrived. All the other men had left **—** all but Uncle Artie, who was sitting on the couch, slowly swirling the brandy in his snifter. Papa dismissed the maid and, once the door was closed, folded his arms and said to me, "Your mother tells me you had a rather… eventful day, shall we say?"

"Yes sir," I said softly.

"Mama told me what happened, but Artie here says there's more to it. So now, Denise, I want you to tell me the whole story."

"Whole story," Uncle Artie echoed, sounding tipsy.

"…Everything?" I said.

"Every single thing!" my uncle sang happily.

I turned to stare at him. He smiled back, looking pleasantly sloshed.

"Yes. Well," my father said. I heard him start to walk around his desk. Instantly Uncle Artie's look sharpened into sobriety. He gave me a swift nod of approval. Then, lapsing into drunkenness again, he said, "S'quite a tale!" And hiccupped.

The whole story! Hoping that I was reading the nod correctly and that Uncle Artie really did want me to tell Papa everything, I folded my hands in front of me as if reciting a lesson and, starting with my trash assignment, told him every blessed thing that had happened, from first to last.

As he sat at his desk before me, my Papa's face ran a gamut of emotions over the course of my story. I saw him glance frequently at Uncle Artie **—** for confirmation, I supposed. I wished Uncle Artie wasn't behind me; I would have liked to have seen his reactions as well. When I was done, Papa shook his head and whistled. "Artie?" he queried.

"S'exactly what happened, Vince. Couldna tol' it better myself."

Well, I thought, _that _was high praise!

"Camilla spoke with you **—** _hired _you **—** and never caught on that this, uh… Mike…?"

"Mike Murray," Uncle Artie supplied, a touch of the Irish creeping into his voice.

"Ah yes. She never caught on that this Mike Murray was you?"

"Not that I could tell."

Papa shook his head again. "You know, Artie, Camilla has long considered you to be the greatest actor since, oh **—** David Garrick…"

Uncle Artie chuckled.

"…but this! And you fooled Mrs Linden as well?"

"Sure looks that way."

"Amazing! Oh," Papa added, glancing at me again. "You can have a seat now, Denise."

"I'm not in trouble?"

"As you knew the man you were leaving with was in fact your Uncle Artie **—** no, I suppose not."

"Thank you, Papa!" I went around the desk and hugged him.

"Now, it would have helped if Camilla had known that was you, Artie," Papa added. "By the way, why were you pretending to be someone else?"

Uncle Artie took a drink of his brandy and said… something.

"Spearmint?" asked Papa.

Uncle Artie gave a drunken snort. "No-no-no. Ex. Per. Iment," he enunciated carefully.

"Experiment? Experiment in what?"

"Hmm?" Uncle Artie responded, his eyes a bit glassy.

"Experiment in what?" Papa repeated.

"Huh? What 'xperiment?"

Papa gave up that line of questioning and passed on to something else. "It certainly does concern me though…" He paused, frowning.

"Hmm? Wha' does?"

"This business with Abner. I find it hard to believe he would express an interest in… well, in anything! Particularly in my daughter."

"Oh that!" Uncle Artie raised his free hand, his forefinger pointing at practically everything in the room. "I did some snoopin'. After bringin' Niecie home? An' y' know, uh, y' know who first brought it up to Camilla about Abner an', an' Niecie?" His finger finally found its direction, pointing at Papa and me. "It was Nathan!"

Papa blinked. "Abner's brother?"

"Yep!"

"But… but… why?"

Uncle Artie shrugged elaborately. "Well, their grandpa settled that half-million dollar trust fund on ol' Abner, y' know, to take care of 'im the rest of 'is life, right?"

Papa nodded.

"An' Nathan admininin… admiss… uh… runs the trust fund, right?"

"He has power of attorney, yes," said Papa, sitting forward.

"Well then…"

"You think Nathan is misappropriating the funds?"

"I dunno. What d' you think?"

"But where does Denise come into this?"

Uncle Artie spread an eloquent hand our way. "Why, Niecie's your heir. When you're gone **—** you an' Camilla **—** all that's yours falls to her."

"And through her, to whomever she marries… That's ugly!"

Uncle Artie shrugged again. "Greed usually is." He regarded the last remnants of the brandy in his snifter, then finished it off. He set down the snifter and started to rise, then fell back down on the couch. He chuckled, "Whoops! Try that again!"

I ran to his side to help him up. "Oh, thank you, Niecie!" he said happily as I got him to his feet. "I think I oughta get some sleep," he declared solemnly.

"Denise, can you help him to his room?"

"Yes, Papa." As long as he was only faking it, I could. There was no way I would be able to get him up the stairs if he wasn't under his own power, though.

"Good night, Sweetheart," Papa said to me. And then, "Sleep well, Artie."

"I shall certainly try," said Uncle Artie with another hiccup. "G'night, Vince."

Slowly we crossed from the study to the stairway. Once I was sure we wouldn't be overheard, I whispered, "Why are you playing drunk?"

"_In vino veritas_, Sunshine," he replied.

"In wine truth?"

He smiled at me, pretending to lean on me heavily. "I had to give your father some disturbing news about Abner and Nathan that also involved you and your mother. I figured he would accept it more readily, and question it less, if he heard the news from a drunken man."

"Oh, I see. And what was that about an experiment?"

"Ah. Well. That's part of the everything I intend to explain to you. But I'll want some privacy to do that. And a good bit of time." We climbed the stairs in silence. "I suppose," he said as I helped him down the hall, "I could have explained while we were away from the house together this afternoon. But I didn't think of it then. I was too busy thinking about getting you back home again as quickly as possible, before your mother could get the entire neighborhood into an uproar."

"Thank you, Uncle Artie."

"I love you too, Niecie." We were at his room now. "Good night, Sunshine," he said.

"Good night."

He gave me my kisses, then went in and closed the door.

I went back to my own room and got ready for bed, so happy to have my Uncle Artie back, so happy to have him here looking out for me — and so _very_ happy to have any "brilliant match" with Cousin Abner decisively quashed!


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

At breakfast the next morning I learned that I wouldn't have to bother with the trash anymore; Papa was hiring someone new to do that. And that, I thought, was wonderful news; now I had more time that I could spend with Uncle Artie! But in the whirl of the reunion, I didn't get to see as much of him as I would have liked.

Whenever I did find him, I generally grabbed his hand and dragged him off to show him something special: a lark's nest, or perhaps a spider's web. At one point I flopped down flat on the ground to stir up an ant lion's trap. "You'll get your dress dirty," he pointed out.

I laughed and said I didn't care.

"Little tom boy," he said fondly. Hunkering down beside me, he asked, "Did you know that ant lions grow up to be lacewings?"

"Lacewings?" I didn't believe him.

"Yes. You know **—** they look like miniature dragonflies?"

"I know what they are but… ant lions are baby lacewings?" I shook my head. "How is that possible?"

"The same way caterpillars become butterflies, or polliwogs become toads. Metamorphosis."

"But they're so different!"

"They are! Amazing, isn't it? It starts out as one thing **—** in this case, an ant lion. And then it goes into the pupal stage. A sort of, well, death, while everything about it changes and becomes new. And when it emerges, it's nothing like it once was. It's changed from a ground-burrowing creature to a free-flying creature. It's just amazing."

There was one evening after Papa got home but before supper that I was called into his study again. And once more, Uncle Artie was already there.

"Yes, Papa?"

Smiling at me, Papa nodded at him and said, "Your Uncle Artie has something to ask you, Denise."

I looked at him, reading delight in his eyes.

"Niecie," he said, "have you ever seen _Hamlet_?"

"No, Uncle Artie. But I know it's your favorite."

"Would you like to?"

"Oh, are you going to be playing Hamlet?" I asked.

"Not I, no. But there's a production in town right now. I thought I might take you to see it, and then out for dinner afterward. Would you like that?"

"Oh, that's sounds wonderful! When will we go?"

"Probably after the reunion is over, once things have quieted down some. If I may prevail on your hospitality for a bit longer, Vince?"

"You may stay all summer as far as I'm concerned, Artie," said Papa.

"Well, thank you for the offer, but I won't be staying that long."

"You're leaving again?" I said in dismay.

"Sweetie, I have to leave eventually. How long did you expect me to stay?"

"I want you to stay forever. I never want you to leave me."

A slow smile spreading across his face, he gave a warm chuckle and gathered me into his arms, cradling me against his heart. "Oh Niecie," he said, pressing a kiss onto the top of my head, "I'm afraid that's just not possible." His voice dropping to a very private whisper, he continued, "I have things **—** urgent things **—** that I must do. And I can't do them from here."

"Why not?"

Very softly, he shushed me. "I'll explain later, before I leave. I still need to find the time and the privacy, but I will explain everything to you, Sunshine. I promise."

…

Another day during the reunion, after hunting over the grounds and not finding Uncle Artie **—** nor many of the other relatives either **—** I walked into the house to continue my search. And instantly I knew where he and the others were. I could hear music and singing coming from the parlor, so I went to have a look.

There was a crowd inside, sitting and standing, cheerfully singing away to an old standard, with Uncle Artie at the piano, his playing ringing through the voices, endeavoring to keep them in time and in tune. His eyes lit up when he saw me at the door. Not having a free hand to wave with, nor wanting to call out to me and interrupt the song, he made a gesture with his head that told me, very plainly, "Come over here and sit with me."

It took a bit of doing to make my way through the crowd. Uncle Artie scooted to his right without missing a beat, making room for me on the piano bench beside him. Still playing, he leaned toward me and whispered, "Want to play a duet?"

"What?" I whispered back. "Now? With no rehearsal?"

"I'll be carrying the melody," he said. "You'll just need to do the chords. And I'll give them to you as we go along. Are you game?"

"I…"

"It'll be fun!" he encouraged.

"What if I hit a wrong note?"

"Just keep on playing and never look back. If you don't acknowledge the mistake, most people will never even notice you made one."

"You're kidding me!"

He chuckled. "Not at all. Ever see a cat do something stupid? Does it act like it made a _faux pas? _No, it acts like, 'I meant to do that.' Right?"

I laughed.

"Then you'll play?"

"… all right."

"Wonderful!" He brought the song to a rousing conclusion and bowed, accepting the applause. When that died away, he introduced me: "I believe you all know Camilla's daughter Denise. She and I will be playing a duet. Key of G all right with you, Niecie?" he asked.

I nodded.

He performed a glissando for the intro, counted off the beats, and we began.

It went surprisingly well. I was very nervous at first and, yes, I hit some clunkers. But I followed Uncle Artie's advice, didn't wince when I messed up, and just went on playing. In addition to whispering the chord changes to me, Uncle Artie also whispered such things as "You're doing great," and "That's my girl!" Gradually I loosened up and began to feel that I was really having fun with this. It seemed all too soon when Uncle Artie brought the duet to a close, giving me the final chord to play after he finished the melody.

Silence reigned for a moment. And then the applause broke out. Uncle Artie took my hand and we rose, bowing, pure delight on his face as he basked in our relatives' approbation. Sitting back down, he began another song and everyone joined in singing.

Later, after the music party had broken up, he said to me, "Intoxicating, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Applause."

"You did look like you were floating on air."

"Doesn't it affect you that way, Niecie?"

"No. Not really. I felt a bit embarrassed."

"Really? Well, I love the applause." A wistful look crossed his face. "Yet another thing I'm going to miss. No one applauds you for…"

"For?"

He crinkled his nose at me. "Tell you later. Hey, you didn't ask me the name of the piece we played. The duet."

"Oh yes, what was that? It was lovely, but I don't think I've ever heard it before."

"Nor will you again." He grinned. "I made it up as we went along."

My eyes went round. "You did?"

He nodded, beaming.

"Well, I'm glad you didn't tell me that beforehand; I'd have been petrified!"

"You can do a lot more than you think you can, if you just go ahead and do it, hmm?" Taking my hand, he said, "Come on. Let's go to the kitchen and see if we can wheedle something delicious out of Mrs Linden."


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

Mother found out about the theater date. I'm not sure how; I know I didn't say anything to her about it, because I knew what would happen. And exactly what I expected to happen did **—** she took over. Suddenly she brought in a dressmaker and there were fittings, fittings, fittings.

I didn't like the dress, and I knew for sure Uncle Artie wouldn't like it. Or, well… I'd been around him enough to know that Uncle Artie was a flirt. Always smiling at pretty young ladies, winking at them, saying things to them that I was amazed anyone female would fall for. He would have liked that dress very much **—** on someone else. Someone who wasn't me.

But try telling my mother that…

"Where's the rest of the bodice?" I asked.

"This is the height of fashion, my dear," Mother answered.

"It has a fetching décolletage," put in the dressmaker.

Whatever that was. Looking down and seeing too much me, I added, "And where will I pin on my brooch?"

"Brooch?" said Mother. "Oh dear, you don't mean that cheap little…"

"…pin that Uncle Artie gave me when I was little? Yes, of course I mean my comedy and tragedy brooch. Uncle Artie gave it to me and he'll expect me to be wearing it **—** especially as he's taking me to the theater."

"You're too old to wear costume jewelry to the theater, Denise. I'll let you wear some of my diamonds."

"It won't be the same, Mother!"

Like talking to a wall…

So after the fitting was over, I went and talked to Uncle Artie instead. In trying to describe the dress to him, I repeated what the dressmaker had said about the fetching décolletage. And he started laughing. "Oh, I understand why you're so upset, Niecie!" he said, his eyes sparkling at me.

"What's a décolletage, anyway?" I asked, feeling a bit cross with him for laughing so much.

"Something you won't need in a dress, Sunshine, until you stop having a figure like a ten-year-old boy!"

I swatted him.

"I'm sorry, Niecie. Are you really very upset over this dress?"

"Yes!"

"When is the next fitting?"

"I don't know. Probably tomorrow."

He winked at me. "Leave it to me then, Sunshine. Though it does amaze me **—** a girl not wanting a new dress!"

"I wouldn't mind a new dress, Uncle Artie, if only I got to say how the dress looked."

"Well, don't worry about a thing, Niecie; I'll take care of it."

And he did. The next day, shortly after the fitting began, he suddenly showed up. Very suddenly, in fact; he simply opened the door and walked in. "Hello!" he said pleasantly. "What have we here?"

Startled, I gave a shriek and bolted behind the changing screen.

"Artemus!" Mother scolded. "You shouldn't be here!"

"Shouldn't?" he repeated. "Is Niecie trying on the dress she'll be wearing to accompany me to the theater?"

"Yes, Uncle Artie," I called from behind the screen.

"Then I should like to see it, Camilla." When I heard no reply, I peeked out and noted the fury on Mother's face. Turning to the dressmaker, Uncle Artie smiled **—** oh, and turned on the charm too. "Hello, my dear," he said. "I'm Denise's uncle Artemus Gordon. And you are?"

"Estelle Cooper," she replied. And blushed, just a bit.

"Ah, Estelle! Such a lovely name. It means 'star' **—** did you know that?"

"Yes, I did, Mr Gordon. My mother often told me so."

"Your mother had excellent taste, Miss Cooper."

"Mrs Cooper," she corrected.

"Ah, Mrs Cooper. I see." He sounded disappointed. "Niecie Sunshine, may I see you in the dress now?"

"No, Uncle Artie, I need help buttoning it."

Turning to the dressmaker again, he asked, "Mrs Cooper? Would you mind?"

"Not at all." She came behind the screen with me and started doing up all those annoying buttons.

"Why do the buttons have to be on the back?" I asked her. "It makes it so hard to get dressed!"

"Well, dear, if they were on the front, they might gap open. You wouldn't want that."

She finished with the buttons, primped me a bit, then led me out. I was almost too ashamed of the dress to look up and meet Uncle Artie's eye. When I did, I saw him look at me, give a nod, then turn to my mother and say, "Camilla, why?"

"Why what, Artemus?"

"Why are you dressing Niecie up in that fashion?"

"Well, it's what all the young ladies are wearing right now."

"But Niecie's a little girl. I want her dressed as a little girl still. Camilla, we talked about this, remember? Little innocent Niecie, still playing with her dolls?"

Taking umbrage, Mother drew herself up and said, "Artemus Gordon, what right have you to tell my daughter how she must dress?"

He nearly laughed. "What right have _I?" _I knew what he was thinking: _she _was the one who was telling me how I must dress.

Mother was glaring at him, and Uncle Artie met that glare steadily. "What right have I…" he repeated. "I'll tell you what right I have in this matter, Camilla. _I'm _the one who invited her to go with me to see _Hamlet_. _I'm _the one who will have to see how embarrassed and uncomfortable she'll be, being seen in public in an unsuitable dress. _I'm _the one who will be comforting her when she bursts into tears because strange men are ogling her in that dress."

Mother was becoming livid.

"In short," Uncle Artie concluded, "_I'm _the one who has the right to make the final decision in this circumstance. And my decision is this: If Niecie must wear that dress, she simply doesn't go."

I gasped. Not get to go to the theater at all? I started to speak up, to tell Uncle Artie that I didn't mind the dress _that _badly. But I couldn't catch his eye; he was only looking at Mother, stare against stare, ignoring me completely.

Except… except I saw his hand lift, just slightly, in a gesture asking me to hold back, not speak. So I obeyed.

After about a minute of silence, Uncle Artie said, "Camilla?"

Petulantly, she responded, "Oh very well, have it your way. But such a lot of bother about a silly little dress!" And she turned and swept from the room.

"Oh, Uncle Artie!" I cried in relief. I ran and hugged him.

"My, but she's strong willed, isn't she?" Uncle Artie reached inside his jacket, pulled out his handkerchief, and made a big show of mopping his brow. "But she did back down."

"What if she hadn't? I wouldn't have gotten to go?"

"Oh, Niecie **—** don't you think I'd have come up with some way to get around her?" With a wink, he whispered, "Even if I'd had to sneak you out of the house, you wouldn't have missed the play, Sunshine."

I hugged him again.

He grinned at me. "Now," he said. "Niecie, do you want a new dress? Or will one of your old ones do?"

"If… well, if I may, I would like to have a new dress, please."

"All right. Can the one you're wearing be salvaged? Or should we start over?"

"The only thing I don't like is the bodice. Well, I'm used to real sleeves too."

Turning to the dressmaker, Uncle Artie said, "Mrs Cooper?"

"I can make the changes she wants."

"Wonderful! How soon will it be ready?"

"How soon will she need it?"

Reaching into a pocket, he produced two bright-colored tickets. "Will two days from now be too soon?"

"I'll have it ready for her tomorrow," said Mrs Cooper.

And she did. But when she brought the dress for me the next day, she wasn't alone. A pretty young lady with strawberry blonde hair accompanied her. Once Uncle Artie and I gathered with them for my final fitting **—** Mother refused to have anything more to do with the dress **—** Mrs Cooper introduced her companion to us as her assistant Deirdre Lance **—** _Miss _Deirdre Lance.

"Oh…! _Enchanté, mademoiselle!" _said Uncle Artie, kissing Miss Lance's hand. She smiled back at him very warmly.

Mrs Cooper unfurled the dress for us to see. "Oh, Uncle Artie, look!" I cried happily.

"Is it as you wanted?" he asked.

"It's perfect now!" I proclaimed.

"Well, perhaps, perhaps not," said Mrs Cooper. "We still need to do the fitting. Deirdre, please help Miss Tyler into the dress." And she and I disappeared behind the changing screen.

I came back out spinning a pirouette. "How do I look, Uncle Artie?"

"There's my girl!" he beamed at me. "You look lovely, Niecie. Absolutely perfect."

"How you two bandy that word about!" said Mrs Cooper, eying me critically. Having me stand on a stool, she went over every inch of the dress, particularly the parts she had reconstructed overnight. She put pins in here and there, stalking round me over and over until she was satisfied. "All right, Deirdre," she said at last, "you may help Miss Tyler out… of…" She looked around, as did I. "Why, where did my assistant go?" she said, baffled.

"Uncle Artie's missing too," I pointed out.

"Oh, you're not suggesting they, ah… went missing together?"

"Maybe."

Shaking her head, Mrs Cooper said, "When I got back to the shop yesterday, I described the confrontation between your mother and your uncle to Miss Lance. And I suppose I did… dwell a bit on how charming and handsome Mr Gordon is." Compressing her lips, she went on with, "I should have suspected something when Miss Lance offered to deliver the dress herself! I wanted to complete your final fitting personally, so when she pressed me about it, I permitted her to accompany me. And now this!" She started undoing my buttons herself, putting me in fear she would shred the dress before I ever got to wear it.

"I think I might know where they are," I ventured.

"You do?"

"Yes. There's a spot with a bench out in the garden that's particularly private." I didn't mention that I'd caught Uncle Artie, uh, entertaining his lady friends there before. For a man who liked to brag so much on my innocence, he wasn't always as careful as he should have been in what he let me learn from his own actions.

"Well," said Mrs Cooper, calming down a bit, "why don't you go look for Miss Lance while I attend to these final adjustments on your dress?"

I agreed, and once I had the new dress off and my old dress back on, I hurried off to the garden. As I got closer to that private spot, my footsteps slowed. Not wanting to walk in on anything embarrassing, I took a breath and began to sing the first song that came to mind:

_ "Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,  
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee…"_

Suddenly there was whispering beyond the bushes in the direction of that bench. Then Uncle Artie's voice called out to me, "Niecie Sunshine! I'll be right out, Sweetie. Just, uh… just, uh… give me a second to, uh…" He never said to, uh, what. But I then heard him whisper, "Wait five minutes before you come out, Sugar, all right?"

Another minute passed before he emerged, looking somewhat askew. Smiling brightly at me, he took my hand and led me quickly away, saying, "Fitting over so soon?"

"It would have been over even sooner," I answered, "but Mrs Cooper's assistant disappeared. I don't suppose you've seen Miss Lance anywhere, have you?"

"Me? Why should I have…? Uh **—** what are you doing, Niecie?"

For I had reached inside his jacket and taken out his handkerchief. Pulling him to a halt, I spat on the cloth and started cleaning his face, tutting at him. "My my my, all that lipstick!" I scolded.

"Lip, uh, lipstick?"

"Yes! And what was wrong with her aim? She kept missing your mouth."

"Oh. Umm…"

"You and the pretty ladies," I said, shaking my head.

"She _was _pretty, wasn't she?" he said wistfully. "And in my defense, it was her idea that we steal away…"

"Because, of course, you couldn't say 'No' to her."

"Oh, she was very persuasive." He grinned reminiscently.

"Well, Mrs Cooper was very angry. I hope Miss Lance doesn't get sacked."

He blinked at me in concern. "Oh, you don't think she will, do you? Perhaps I should go and put in a good word for her…"

"Ha! _You? _You'll do Miss Lance a big favor by steering clear of Mrs Cooper entirely, Uncle Artie!" Finishing, I folded and tucked away his handkerchief again. "Now," I said, "I need to go in and try the dress on yet again. Try to be a good boy and stay out of trouble?"

"Yes ma'am," he said.

I stretched up and kissed his cheek. "Why don't you go flirt at Mrs Linden? You can't get into trouble with her, at least."

"And she'll feed me…" Eyes twinkling, he said, "See you soon, Sunshine," as we parted ways at the kitchen door.


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

The big night arrived at last. The reunion had ended and the house felt empty with all the guests gone now. All except for Uncle Artie, of course.

In getting me ready to go out that evening, Mother and I nearly had a row over, well, everything. She brought in a hairdresser to put my hair up into a sophisticated coif full of ribbons and hairpins **—** over my protests. Mother also insisted on making up my face **—** again over my protests. I was sure Uncle Artie was not expecting me to be all dolled up in lipstick and powder, but Mother wouldn't hear No. "Besides," she pointed out, "it's only a tiny bit of make-up. Hardly any at all!"

"But, Mother, I don't _want _any at all — at all!"

As if she would listen…

And then there was the jewelry. I pinned on my little brooch; Mother tsked at me and took it off again. And somehow in me trying to take it back from her **—** somehow my pin fell on the floor, and Mother stepped on it. She apologized profusely and swore it was an accident, but I never did quite believe her. Uncle Artie's pretty pin was gone!

To make up for it, Mother loaned me one of her own beautiful necklaces. And as soon as she went out the door ahead of me, I yanked the necklace off and threw it into the corner. Hmph!

Mother was at the landing midway down the stairs by the time I appeared at the top. Papa and Uncle Artie were downstairs in the front hall, Uncle Artie dressed to the nines in his evening clothes with hat, cloak, and walking stick; oh, but he was handsome! He looked up at me, ready with a welcoming smile. And I saw his smile freeze on his face.

Admittedly I would have been a sight to behold even without the make-up and hairstyle: scowling face, folded arms, hunched shoulders. Uncle Artie's eyes took me in from top to bottom. And then his eyes shifted to Mother. And he smiled.

Uh-oh. That was his Dangerous Smile. If it had been me he was smiling at like that, I would have run and hidden under my bed. His face fixed in that oh-so-sweet smile, he held a hand out to my mother and said **—** his voice so very genial, his eyes so very glittering **—** "Camilla, my dear. May I have a word with you?"

Mother descended the steps and Uncle Artie drew her off to one side. Still smiling, he said to her sweetly, "Did tonight somehow become Niecie's début and no one told me?"

"Excuse me?"

"I did something about the dress because Niecie begged me. And now **—** look at her! Did she ask for the make-up or the coiffure?"

"If she's going to the theater…"

"This is not a social event, Camilla. I'm not taking her out to see and be seen. This is a cultural event, for her to get acquainted with _Hamlet_."

"But as long as she's going…"

"No. Later, when she's older, when she enjoys dressing up **—** that's one thing. But now she's still a little girl, and at the moment a distinctly unhappy little girl. Fix. This."

"But I want…"

"Camilla, I'm going to be blunt with you. I don't give a d*mn what you want."

Mother's face went white and she gasped **—** well, so did I. Turning to my father, she demanded, "Vincent! Are you going to permit him to speak to me in that fashion? Here in my own house?"

And Papa replied, "When you deserve it, Camilla, yes." And he escorted her into his study over her protests.

Uncle Artie came to the foot of the stairs, leaned against the balustrade, sparkled his eyes at me fondly, and said, "When you're done cleaning up, Sunshine, we can go."

"Yes, Uncle Artie!" And I hurried to obey. Once I had all the make-up off, I flew down the stairs to him. "Better?" I asked.

"Much," he agreed. "Although… how many hair pins are in that coiffure, anyway?"

"_Too _many!"

With a mischievous gleam in his eye, he said, "We could count them!"

So we did. By the time I had taken the coiffure completely to pieces, we had thirty-four hairpins, which Uncle Artie deposited on the hall table for my mother to use later if she so desired. Then, pulling the wings of hair from alongside my face around to the back, he tied them with one of the ribbons and declared me lovely. "And," he said in satisfaction, "_that's _my girl!"

He offered his arm; I took it, and out the door we went.

He had hired a carriage which was waiting for us in the driveway. Giving me his hand, he helped me in, joined me, and closed the little door, then gave a tap of his walking stick against the ceiling. And as the carriage moved off to convey us to the theater, he relaxed and settled back in his seat, his left arm around me as usual.

"I think, Niecie Sunshine," he said, "that I may have just worn out my welcome. Possibly permanently."

"You don't think Mother would kick you out, do you?" I asked in horror.

"Well," he said with his usual good humor, "we'll find that out when we return, won't we, by whether my bags are piled out on the front porch! But don't dwell on it, Niecie," he added gently. "I don't want anything to ruin your evening."

I leaned against his side. "Uncle Artie?"

"Hmm?"

"There's something I've been wanting to ask you…"

"Yes, Sunshine?"

I looked up at him. "How can you afford this?"

He chuckled. "Sweetie, when you're older and some fine young man invites you out for an evening on the town, please do bear in mind that it's somewhat _gauche _to ask him how he intends to pay for it!"

"Well, it's just that… when we went by your hotel to get your things, you said you were running low on funds."

"That's true; I did. And I was."

"Then how…?"

He tapped me on the tip of my nose. "Curiosity, thy name is Denise!"

I dropped my eyes. "You're not going to tell me?"

There was silence for a bit. Then he sighed. "You and your feminine wiles! All right, I'll tell you. You remember all those times during the reunion when you said to me, 'I've been looking for you for hours'? Well, I'd been gone during those hours, off doing odd jobs to earn some money."

"You were? But I never saw you leave or come back."

He crinkled his nose at me. 'Actually, you did. Twice, in fact."

"I did? But I don't remem…" And then I twigged to what he was saying. "You were in disguise?"

"That I was! Once as a German fellow I called Wilhelm Schimmler, and the other time as an Italian, Giulio Rosetti."

"But why the disguises?"

He shrugged. "Partly that was the experiment I mentioned to your father: to see how well **—** how successfully **—** I could pass myself off as other people. And partly because I'm pretty well known in certain circles here in Chicago and I didn't want to be recognized while I was raising the cash."

"How did you raise the cash?" I asked. "And why the experiment?"

"Oh, two questions," he said. "Answer to the first: I tried manual labor **—** such as what Mike Murray was doing. But I found the fastest and easiest way, for me at least, was busking."

Mystified, I said, "What's that? I've never heard that word before."

"Playing music on street corners, that sort of thing. I was playing my violin with my case open for donations. But in disguise because I didn't want anyone who knew me to recognize me. After all, that would have led to a lot of awkward questions. Not to mention how badly it would have cut down on the donations," he added with a twinkle in his eye.

I gave that a bit of thought. "And that's what the experiment was about? Avoiding being recognized?"

"Partly."

"And the other part?"

"Ah, my dear Niecie, for the rest… Therein lies the tale, for which we haven't yet the time for me to tell it." Gesturing out the window of the carriage, he said, "See? We're nearly to the theater." Glancing at me, he added, "By the way, how much do you know of the plot of _Hamlet?"_

I shrugged. "I don't know. A little, I guess."

"Let me give you a brief synopsis then, Sunshine. So that in the middle of the play, you won't suddenly feel the need to ask me what all those people are yelling about, hmm?"

I snorted. Also swatted him. "Uncle Artie, I'm old enough now to know how to whisper!"

He chuckled. "I know. But…" and he tapped me on the nose again, "during the play when Hamlet himself is speaking **—** those are my favorite lines, so pray don't interrupt any of them. All right, Niecie?"

"Yes, Uncle Artie."

He smiled and, snuggling me up against his side, he spent the rest of the ride telling me the story of the Danish prince.


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

We arrived, and I found out in a hurry that going to the theater with my parents was nothing like going there on Uncle Artie's arm. We could barely take three steps at a time without someone recognizing him. It was constantly, "Well, Artemus! I didn't know you were back in town!" or "Aren't you Artemus Gordon? May I have your autograph?" The more people greeted him, the more I clung to his arm, afraid of being swept away from him and lost.

Finally we made it through the lobby and an usher showed us to our seats. Slipping his arm around me once again, Uncle Artie leaned in close and said, "I'm going to enjoy watching you get your first taste of _Hamlet_, Niecie." Then, taking a closer look, he asked, "But where's your brooch?"

Dropping my eyes, I whispered, "I'm sorry, Uncle Artie. It got broken."

"It did? When? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Just now, when I was getting dressed to come with you tonight."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Sweetie. But then if you'll take a look at me…" I did. "I'm not wearing my stickpin either," he confessed. "But mine broke a long time ago." He shrugged. "Cheap costume jewelry."

The house lights were dimming. Uncle Artie looked at me and grinned. And the play began.

As it turned out, I was the one who enjoyed watching him watching the play. He was in an almost continuous state of rapture. I wasn't sure, though, if it was from him delighting in the staging of it that we were watching, or if he was perhaps staging it inside his head so that it was his own private version that he was enjoying so much. At any rate, by the final act I was sitting sideways in my seat, just watching him. And he finally turned to look at me and caught me at it.

Shooting me a look of puzzlement, he pointed toward the stage. Smiling, I shook my head and pointed at him. Shaking his head in return, he pulled me close, physically turned my head toward the stage, and whispered, "The play's up there."

"But the most fascinating actor's down here," I whispered back.

He chuckled and gave up.

I did like the sword fight at the end, but I was glad Uncle Artie had explained to me ahead of time what was going on; I might not have understood it all otherwise. When it was completely over and all the dead bodies had gotten back up and taken their bows **—** and I don't think anyone applauded harder than Uncle Artie **—** he turned to me and asked, "Well?"

"Everybody died!"

"That's the nature of a tragedy, Sweetie. And most actors enjoy getting to play a good death scene. Besides, not everyone dies; Horatio survives."

"Who gets to be the king, though? The king and queen died, and Hamlet himself died. So who's going to reign now?"

"Oh, you didn't catch that part? Fortinbras will become king."

I shook my head. "Boy, they have some weird names, Uncle Artie."

We visited backstage before we left. I was astonished to see the actor who had just played Hamlet once he was out of his make-up; why, the man was _old! _Uncle Artie had several friends among the actors and stage crew, so it took quite a while to ever get him out of the theater. And, inevitably, his old friends would ask, "So where have you been?" And Uncle Artie would smile and answer, "Oh, here and there…"

We exited through the stage door. Some of the cast invited us to come dine with them, but Uncle Artie begged off, explaining that we already had reservations elsewhere. Instead, we went off by ourselves, we two, as he squired me to **—** not a French restaurant, which is where I had assumed he would take me **—** not even an Italian restaurant. No, he took me to a Chinese restaurant, which was a very great surprise!

And then he flirted with our waitress, which was no surprise at all.

Fried rice was wonderful; egg rolls even better. And just when I was feeling safe because there would be neither _escargot _nor _grenouille _**—** he fed me something I didn't think to inquire closely enough about. And of course he waited until after I'd swallowed to inform me it was squid.

And of course I swatted him!

We lingered over the hot tea and almond cookies, nattering on about inconsequential things, until finally he gave me one of his lop-sided smiles and said, "Well, Niecie. All too soon it's time for me to take you home."

"But… but we haven't had that talk! You promised to explain everything."

"And I still intend to keep my promise. But we haven't had the privacy yet."

"And we won't on the carriage ride home either, because of the driver," I pouted.

"Ah," he said. "And that's why we won't be taking a carriage home." Bouncing his eyebrows at me, he finished with, "We walk."

The gibbous moon was just rising as we left the restaurant. The summer night air was neither too warm nor too cool. The other passers-by were thinning out to few and far between. And Uncle Artie nodded and said, "Now we can talk, Sunshine."

"All right. Where were you all that time? And what happened in New Orleans?"

"I need to give you a little background first, Niecie. Let's see… You remember about _Uncle Tom's Cabin_, of course."

"Well sure."

"With that play, we **—** the troupe and I **—** pretty much announced to the world that we were abolitionists. And that brought ruin to some of the activities we had previously been doing. You see…" He glanced around to be sure no one was overhearing us, then added, "By the way, Niecie, everything I'm telling you tonight, you mustn't repeat to anyone **—** not even to your parents. You see, Sunshine, your ol' Uncle Artie is a wanted man."

"A what?"

He grinned at me, eyes twinkling. "A criminal!"

I stared at him, shocked. "And you're happy about this?"

He shrugged, still smiling. "As I'm a criminal for all the right reasons, yes. You see, many times on the showboat when we were heading back north again, we had, shall we say, a bit more baggage with us than what we had had on the trip south."

I didn't catch his meaning, and my face must have shown it, for he added, "That is to say," and his voice dropped to a whisper, "we smuggled a number of escaping slaves out of the South and up to Canada."

"You mean the Underground Railroad?" I whispered back.

"Oh, so you've heard of it."

"Some. So you're a conductor on it?" I knew I looked excited.

"Not at that time, no. It was more that I was aware of what others in the troupe were doing and approved of it. And through those others I met still others who were active abolitionists. It was what happened in New Orleans a few months back that pushed me over the edge." He stopped talking, a far away look in his eyes. Recognizing a dramatic pause, I waited for him to go on, looking into his face.

And then I realized. "It's gone!"

Startled, Uncle Artie asked, "What's gone?"

"For the longest time now, you've had this little spot of sadness in your eyes. But it's not there anymore." My mouth fell open. "And that's why I didn't recognize you when you were Mike Murray **—** because it was gone! If I'd seen that spot of sadness in your eyes, no amount of disguising would have kept me from knowing it was you!"

"And you've seen this for how long?"

"Well, I really noticed it the day you asked me not to come to the play. But I'm pretty sure it had been there long before that. And I'm sure it hasn't been there at all this whole time you've been here now. So something must have changed while you were gone."

"A great deal changed while I was gone, Niecie. I think, though," he said, then broke off and gave it some more thought as we continued to stroll along. He finally began again: "I think, though, the main thing that has changed is that I'm no longer a mere observer. Before, I saw what was happening and bemoaned it. Now… Well, this is what happened, Niecie."

I squeezed his arm. "I'm listening," I whispered.

"We had arrived at New Orleans of course, as you know," he said. "A few days into our stay, I was out walking about, minding my own business, when I heard a commotion. Curious, I tracked down the noise and found a slave auction underway. Upon the dais was a man with his arms round the waist of a young slave woman who was screaming her head off, crying out for her baby. And on the ground walking away from the dais was another man carrying a little black boy no more than three years old. The child was leaning over that man's shoulder, arms flung out toward the slave woman, screaming for his mamma."

He shook his head. "I don't know what came over me. I suppose you could say I snapped. The next thing I knew I was standing in the midst of the scene, doing the best Southern accent I could muster, yelling something about a prior sale and waving a sheet of paper **—** I think it was actually my laundry bill. In all the confusion, I grabbed the child, thrust him into his mother's arms, then spirited them both out of there."

"You didn't!" I squeaked admiringly.

"Oh, I did! And then I had to figure out what to do next! The only thing I could think of was to contact an abolitionist friend I knew there in town, someone on the Underground Railroad. That person set some things into motion, and before I knew it, someone had gone to the troupe and picked up my things **—** I heard from your mother the story they noised about to cover my disappearance. Someone else checked quietly with the police and learned, to our relief, that I had not been identified **—** yet. And as quickly as possible, the woman and her child were sent on to the next station of the Underground Railroad — as was I." Giving one of his lop-sided smiles, he said, "And thus I exchanged my career on the stage for a new career as a conductor. I've made the round trip several times now taking people to freedom. And that, Niecie, is the real reason for all the disguises. I've been using what I know of make-up, dialects, posture **—** acting in general **—** to become whoever I need to be to get my passengers to safety in Canada. I just completed my most recent delivery a few days before the reunion was to begin, and so I decided to come over here to Chicago." He smiled. "I thought I'd see you and the other relatives, and give my disguises a good test on people who know me well."

"And they worked!" I beamed proudly.

He grinned smugly. "Indeed they did." He sighed. "But, Niecie Sunshine, it's time now for me to get back to work. These are the urgent things that I must do that I can't do from here, remember?"

Sadly I nodded. "So now you're going away again?"

"Yes, Sweetie, I am. And I don't know when I'll be able to come see you again, since Chicago isn't on my regular routes. As it stands, I don't even have an address to be able to keep in touch with you by letter."

I squeezed his arm tightly and began to cry.

Out came his handkerchief to dry my tears. Out came his favorite thing to say to me: "Oh, Niecie Sunshine **—** I love you too."

When at last I trusted my voice again, I said, "I'm really proud of you, Uncle Artie. This is a wonderful thing you're doing. And I love you, Uncle Artie **—** lots and lots." I gave another sniffle. "But I always miss you so much…"

He hugged me close and kissed my forehead. Then, as we started walking yet again, he said somberly, "You remember the conversation I had with your mother a couple years back, while you were in the room practicing piano?"

"Yes, Uncle Artie."

He sighed. "It's coming, Sunshine. War. It's closer now than it's ever been. The presidential election this fall will probably be the flashpoint. The Democrats are split three ways, and that could give the new party, the Republicans, their big chance. Your own Mr Lincoln could very well become president! Only…" he shook his head, "if he does, Niecie, his abolitionist views **—** mild as they are **—** already have many in the South speaking of secession. Well, you see what will happen then, don't you?"

I shook my head.

"The Federal government owns a great deal of property in the South; among other things, a large number of forts. If the South tries to claim that Federal property as its own… That's where the shooting will most likely start, I think."

"I don't want there to be a war!"

"Well, of course you don't, Sunshine! Why would you? Now, I'm not particularly worried about you when the war comes; I doubt there will be any battles as far north as Chicago."

"But what about you? Going back and forth on the Underground Railroad? Won't you be in danger?"

He sighed. "I'm not sure how much work the Underground Railroad will be able to get done in the midst of a war, Sweetie. That's why I need to get back to my job as soon as I can, to move as many people as possible before war intervenes. But…" He hesitated, looking at me and tapping a forefinger under his nose.

"But what?"

He looked all around us once again. "Niecie," he said seriously. "I'm going to remind you once again not to say anything to anyone about what I'm telling you tonight. All right?"

"Yes, Uncle Artie."

"I haven't told a soul about my plans, but… Once the war starts, I intend to leave my, uh, current employment and offer my services to the Northern side…" his voice dropped so very low I barely heard the final three words of the sentence, "…as a spy."

"As a _what?"_

He shook his fingers at me, shushing me. "A spy," he hissed. "I figure I'd make a good one, mostly doing a lot of what I'm doing already. In fact, I've been gathering information and passing it on already."

"A spy!" I whispered and grinned at him. "Oh, Uncle Artie, how exciting!"

He snorted. "Exciting, she says. Oh yes **—** it's very exciting when the enemy catches you at it, and then they take you out first thing in the morning and let you have one final smoke before they… uh…"

Puzzled, I said, "Before they what, Uncle Artie?"

One side of his mouth twitched up into an almost laugh. "Never mind, Sunshine. I'm just ramblin'." He looked ahead of us, then pointed with his walking stick. "But look where we are, Niecie: nearly home." And as we got even closer to the house, he added, "Ah! And I don't see my luggage out on the porch. So perhaps it's safe to go in."

"But you're going to pack up your bags right away and leave, aren't you?" I asked, not looking at him, for I was certain that if I did look at him, I'd start crying again.

He didn't answer immediately. We reached the porch. He stuck a hand in his pocket and produced the house key, used it, held it up in his fingers for a moment afterwards, then turned and passed it on to me, saying, "Your Papa was letting me have this during my stay here. Would you please return it to him for me, with my thanks?"

I stared at the key lying there in my open palm for a moment myself before I found my voice. "Then you _are _going right away, before Papa gets up tomorrow morning!"

"I'm afraid so, Sunshine. I've already stayed longer than I intended. I wasn't even going to be here for the whole reunion, much less stay on after it was over, except…" He cut his eyes at me. There in the moonlight I thought I saw a rim of wetness standing on his lower lids. He gave a long blink, then added, "Except once I was here, I found I wanted to spend just, uh… just a little bit longer, you know…" his voice dropped "…with my little girl."

He smiled at me; I saw him swallow hard. I put my arms around him and blurted out, "I love you too, Uncle Artie."

This elicited another of his wonderful laughs. "Oh, Sunshine! I do believe that is the first time ever that you have managed to beat me to that line!"

We went on inside and locked up, then headed for the stairs. As we mounted them, he said to me, "You know, Niecie, there's something I've never told you. I've thought of it often enough, but somehow I never actually told you. But…" He stopped there, halfway up the stairs, smiled down fondly at me, and said, "Niecie, if ever I have a daughter, I hope she'll be just like you. Sweet. Innocent. Happy **—** well, most of the time, at least. Funny. Teasable." He ruffled my hair. "Endlessly curious. And of course," he added, his face perfectly straight, eyes wide, eyebrows arched, "utterly and completely devoted to _me_."

I gave a snort and swatted his arm. He broke out laughing, then muffled himself immediately lest he wake my parents. He slipped an arm around me and squeezed me tight, then escorted me the rest of the way to my bedroom door where he gave me my kisses as usual and said, "Good night, Niecie Sunshine. And, well…"

Knowing that the next word out of his mouth was going to be "Good-bye," I turned to him suddenly and flung my arms around him, burying my face in the ruffles of his fine shirt. And I said to him, my voice catching, "Oh please don't say it!"

He didn't. Instead, I felt him wrap his arms tightly around me and hold me close. I felt him press a kiss gently onto the top of my head. I felt the warmth of his breath against my scalp as he rested his cheek there, while I cried.

Shortly I felt one of his arms move from its place; a moment later there was a tap on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw his hand offering me his handkerchief, which I took and put to good use while his arm returned to enfold me again.

Eventually I whispered, "I've gotten your beautiful shirt all soggy."

He chuckled. "Because sometimes a handkerchief just isn't enough, hmm?" He kissed me on the head again. "Don't worry about the shirt, Sunshine. It'll dry out. And you can go ahead and keep that handkerchief."

I looked at it, all pitiful and drippy, and said, "But Uncle Artie, I don't know what to do with it."

"That's all right," he replied, "neither do I." And he twinkled his eyes at me.

"You're trying to make me laugh again," I accused.

"Mm-hmm. Guilty as charged," he said airily. "What's my punishment?"

I hugged him fiercely. "Yeah," he said agreeably. "That's what I thought." He hugged me back and gave me my kisses one more time: first on the forehead, then on this cheek and that one, then on the tip of my nose. "Now," he added, "tell your mother… Oh never mind; I'll write her a note. And as for you, Niecie, my little Sunshine," and he gave me a wink, "I at long last give you my permission to grow up."

"What?"

"If I can, you can," he replied, mystifying me completely. "Now one more hug," he suited action to his words, "and off to bed with you." He turned then and walked down the hall to his own room. He paused at the door and gave me a little wave, opened the door to go in, then paused yet again.

Looking back at me once more, he asked, "Niecie, do you still say your prayers before you go to bed, Sweetie?"

"Yes, Uncle Artie."

A bit shyly, he asked, "Well, whenever you do, would you mind, uh… putting in a good word for your ol' Uncle Artie?"

"Of course I'll pray for you," I replied.

He nodded his thanks. "I expect I'll need it," he said. "Oh **—** and Niecie?"

"Yes, Uncle Artie?"

One more wink. "I love you too." And he disappeared into his bedroom and shut the door.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

That was the last time I saw him, from that day to this. From then on, I only had infrequent notes from him. This started the very next morning with an envelope under my door for me to find when I woke up. My parents had one as well.

Theirs read:

_My Dear Vince and Camilla,_

_I want to thank you both for your gracious hospitality in putting up with me for the past week and a half. The company was delightful as always _**—**_ as, of course, was the food! Please tender my compliments to Mrs Linden._

_Niecie and I had a wonderful time at the theater, etc, last night, and I want to thank you both for allowing your little girl to accompany an old codger like me. She's a lovely little girl, and I wouldn't change a thing about her._

_Camilla, regarding the harsh things that passed between us during my stay _**—**_ what can I say? Only that you cannot imagine how sorry I am to have had occasion to say them._

_My apologies for disappearing so suddenly, but urgent business calls me elsewhere. My love to you all; I'll write when I am able._

_ Affectionately,  
Artemus_

Mother read the note aloud at the breakfast table, nodded happily, and said, "I'm so glad Artemus apologized for those horrible things he said to me!" Then she swept from the room to begin her day.

Papa, with a dubious look on his face, took up the letter and read it through to himself, and began to chuckle.

"What is it, Papa?"

Pointing to the third paragraph, he said, "Look how he phrased this! Your mother's thinking he apologized, but that's not what he said. He didn't apologize at all! What he said was that he was sorry occasions came up in which he had to tell her off. It's the occasions he regrets, not the harsh words!" He folded the note, tucked it back into its envelope, and shook his head admiringly. "Oh, that's Artie, all right! Trust him to word it so ambiguously that your mother completely missed his real meaning!"

My own note from Uncle Artie I didn't show to my parents or even mention it to them. It said:

_Niecie Sunshine,_

_I just wrote a note for your parents, and thought I would write you as well. I hope you enjoyed our evening out together as much as I did. And I hope you remember everything we said._

_As for your mother, I do not understand her. Granted, men throughout history have tried to understand women and found themselves baffled. But in the case of your mother, I do not understand why it is that the mere fact of you turning thirteen seems to have altered her into a matchmaker. Not to mention all this matter of putting you into adult fashions, adult make-up, adult coiffures. _

_Do not let her buffalo you, Niecie. Of course you must grow up, but do so on your own schedule. Do not let her push you into anything __with which __you are uncomfortable. And for Heaven's sake, do not let her talk you into marrying someone you do not want to! I know it is strange, me speaking to you of marriage, my little girl, but given that your mother has already tried to foist Abner off onto you…!_

_Always keep in mind that whom you marry is your choice, not hers, because she will not have to live with the fellow; you will! Or at least, I hope when you are married, you will not have your mother living with you and your husband; it is from such situations that mother-in-law jokes are born._

_I only meant to write you a short note, Niecie. Mostly what I wanted to tell you is this: if your mother becomes overbearing to you about any matter, go to your papa. He is a good ally._

_ Fondly,  
Your loving uncle,  
Artie_

Time passed. The elections came that November, and over the course of the following months, everything Uncle Artie had predicted came to pass. Before April was half over the next spring, the nation was two nations, and those two nations were at war.

I think what upset Mother the most about the war was the fact that, with so many young men going off to join the army, she was hard-pressed to find anyone with whom to shove me into a match! This was fine with me, of course — the lack of matchmaking, not the war, that is. I did worry, though, and pray for the young men I knew who had left to go to war: two of Papa's law clerks, a number of our young neighbors, and several others from my family's circle of acquaintances.

But chiefly it was Uncle Artie I worried about and prayed for. I had finally figured out how that sentence about letting a spy have a final smoke would have ended **—** in an execution. I worried about him a lot.

And then the letters began. Uncle Artie had an address again, with the Union army! He told us precious little about what his work was, but filled the letters instead with anecdotes of army life, and frequently with pen or pencil sketches he had drawn as well. One thing he found amazing were the photographers. Mathew Brady had hired a number of men, fitted them out with traveling darkrooms, and sent them out to document the war in photographs. They had permission from President Lincoln himself to travel to the battle sites to make their photos. Not only that, but various newspapers and magazines had reporters and sketch artists assigned to follow the army as well. Simply amazing!

For the four years of the war the letters flew back and forth between Uncle Artie and Mother, with me enclosing a note in her letters to him, and him enclosing separate notes for me in his letters to her. Often the notes for me would include a feather or leaf or pressed flower for my enjoyment.

Finally, at long last, the war was over! But in the midst of our relief and rejoicing came the horror of the news of Mr Lincoln's assassination **—** the final casualty, I thought of him, of that terrible Civil War. In the wake of that came another letter from Uncle Artie, with a note for me saying:

_War has changed everything, Niecie. It has certainly changed me. I know your mother will be disappointed, but the thought of going back on the stage, or on the showboat _**—**_ no, that life has lost its appeal for me, or at least for now. _

_Your mother would be appalled at some of the skills I have acquired, often from necessity, in my years of army life. As an example, your ol' Uncle Artie has become a fairly accomplished pickpocket! Yes, picture me grinning proudly. I have also become something of a chemist, mixing up interesting things that go fizz or whoosh or boom. _

_Some of these new skills I developed in the interest of acquiring intelligence, as we call it. In other words, spying, just as I had told you beforehand. But sometimes the pick pocketing and other such "life skills" were performed merely in the interest of keeping body and soul together, especially so when I was undercover behind enemy lines. Especially towards the end._

_Let me tell you, Niecie: never hate the former Confederates, only pity them. By the end, they had hardly any food or anything else; so many of their farm fields had become battlefields._

_I am not yet sure what I plan to do with myself. I may simply bum around for a bit. I have always lived life on the road, so that is no problem for me. Once I have mustered out of the army, though, I am afraid I may be without address for some time. I will write when I can._

_Do you remember, Niecie, the ant lions and the lacewings? This war has been terrible, my little girl, terrible beyond imagining, far worse than I expected. And yet _**—**_ I have hope that perhaps, perhaps this time of great death will, like the ant lion's pupa, culminate in our nation's transforming from a thing of the earth to a thing of the air._

_It is a lovely thought, and I believe I will hang onto it._

_ All my love, Sunshine,  
Your philosophically-minded uncle,  
Artie_

Silence followed for some time. Then, shortly after Gen Grant took office as president, there was a new letter from Uncle Artie from a permanent address in Washington City! As he explained in his letter to us:

_Not that I will often be in Washington itself, but I will be able to pick up my correspondence whenever I get back into town. So feel free to write me to your hearts' content._

_You may remember my old army friend whom I have mentioned in previous letters, Jim West. Strange to refer to such a young man as an "old" friend, but friendships made during war tend to feel as if they stretch back into Eternity Past. Jim and I will be working together in this new job of mine. I cannot tell you much about the job itself. It is law enforcement on the Federal level to counteract any sort of threat to national security. And it will mean life on the road, as usual. Some things never change!_

_All my love to you all: Camilla, Vince, and of course my little Niecie. Hard for me to imagine, but she is turning _**—**_ what? twenty-two this June? I have missed out on so much, haven't I?_

I wrote him back to inform him of the great many things in my life that he had missed out on. His next letter to me ran:

_Niecie Sunshine,_

_I hope there will be no jealousy in your ol' Uncle Artie continuing to address you in that fashion. You will always be my little girl, my little Sunshine._

_But to think of you as all grown up, and married, and soon to be a mother! I am simply and utterly thunderstruck!_

_Your Craig sounds like a fine young man, someone I would be proud to consider my nephew-in-law. If in the course of my job I get the chance to swing by Chicago, I will try to drop in and meet him, and see you (and the baby!). I probably will not even recognize you anymore, will I?_

_I would have loved to have attended your wedding, Niecie, if only I had known. But of course, that was my fault for not having an address at the time. I will have to content myself with imagining a dance at the reception with you, the beautiful blushing bride._

_All my love to you, Mrs Sparrow, and to your Craig, and to the little one being knit in secret,  
Your nomadic uncle,  
Artie_

Mother had to write him the next letter; I was too devastated. A month and a half passed before I received his reply:

_Dearest Niecie,_

_I have no words. If only I could be there, Sunshine, to hold you and let you soak both my handkerchief and my shirt. (Yes, I am trying to make you laugh.)_

_With the war over, it has been easy to forget that young men still die, and young widows still grieve. I have always wanted to shelter you, Sunshine, from the harsh realities of life. But in this I could not and cannot. And I am so very sorry, my sweet little girl, that I cannot._

_I love you with all my heart, Niecie. Poor comfort that is, I know, for a precious young woman with empty arms. If there is anything I can do that is within my power to do, please do not hesitate to let me know._

_ Ever yours,  
Your sorrowing uncle,  
Artie_

Mother wrote him the next letter as well, during my confinement. This time it took two months to receive his reply, which consisted this time of a small package along with a note:

_Niecie Sunshine,_

_I am thunderstruck anew! What an honor you have bestowed upon me, my little girl, to have named your little girl for me! I doubt if I will quit smiling like an idiot for the next three weeks _**—**_ at least!_

_Enclosed is a small gift for my little namesake, even if her spelling must differ slightly from mine. Just assure me that her nickname will _**not **_be Artie. It sounds fine on me, but somehow it just does not transfer well to the fairer sex._

_Hugs and kisses to you, Sunshine, and to your precious little angel._

_ Lovingly,  
Your enraptured uncle,  
Artie_

And in the package was a tiny gold bracelet, sized for a baby's wrist, strung with dainty letters spelling out her name: ARTEMIS.

…

Missie's nearly three now and has never yet gotten to meet Uncle Artie. Not yet. I hope for that to change soon.

I should write him, I know, to inform him of my latest change in status, of the offer from Craig's cousin Aloysius Morgan to move to Georgetown and become governess to his three daughters. Well, perhaps I've picked up a bit of Uncle Artie's flair for the dramatic, for the appeal of showing up on his doorstop unannounced, out of the blue, is so very strong.

I know the name of his train is the Wanderer. I know whenever he's in Washington City at all, his train will be at the railroad yards. So once we're settled in at the Morgan home in Georgetown, once I have my first half-day as governess, I plan to take Missie with me to go look for his train. How wonderful it will be to find him, to see his face again, and to see his face when he sees me — and especially when he sees Missie!

Of course it _has _been a dozen years. He said before he might not recognize me, and it's very likely he won't know me at first. What then?

Ah, if that is the case, I believe I shall give my own meager acting skills a try, by taking on the role of a young admirer from his former days on the stage, to see how long it takes him to twig to me for once. No need for make-up or a disguise. Just a small amount of pretending to be a stranger.

Oh, I'm looking forward to this! I can hardly wait! Uncle Artie was always my special treasure, and I want my Missie to have that special treasure too!

Because every little girl ought to have an Uncle Artie, right?

**FIN**


End file.
